The Glory of Ice: Reign of the Mockingbird
by Silver Phantom 2
Summary: Second part of the Kingsmoot Saga. The Kingsmoot is over and the lords of Westeros leave King's Landing for their homes. While the Lords of Westeros try to regather their strength in the midst of political and social upheaval, Arianne Martell and Roslin Frey journey to opposite corners of Westeros, carrying Robb Stark's heirs...
1. Prologue

This is the second part of my Kingsmoot Saga. Before you read "The Glory of Ice: Reign of the Mockingbird," please read "A Parliament of Fowls: The First Kingsmoot of Westeros," or you will be incredibly confused when reading this. Obviously, everything here is the property of George R.R. Martin. I own nothing except any original characters.

**Prologue**

"Lord Nestor Royce," Petyr Baelish said, "Your instructions are simple. Keep the Gates of the Moon how I kept the Eyrie: sealed. No information leaves the rookery unless it bears my seal, both in wax and in writing."

"Yes, my lord," Nestor responded. Still, he couldn't stop _all _the information from entering the Gates of the Moon. The smallfolk working in the fields around the castle began to hear rumors from men traveling through the Vale. The most potent rumor was also the most mysterious: that Petyr Baelish went to the Kingsmoot in the Red Keep, and now sat the Iron Throne.

But Maester Snorri still only reported the usual ravens: Runestone, Gulltown, and Ironoak. The Lords of the Vale were all trying to gain influence over Nestor. He had, essentially, control over the Vale with the Lord Regent's natural daughter Alayne.

Lord Nestor originally hoped, shamefully from his own ambitions, that he would have Lord Robert under his custody. Seldom does a cadet branch overtake in power and riches a host branch, but if those rumors of a King Petyr were true, then Nestor had a huge advantage over cousin Yohn.

He surveyed the fields around the Gates before the sun dipped behind the western mountains and an autumn chill descended on him in the darkness. One by one, the smallfolk left the fields and journeyed to their huts. Nestor waited until he began to lose feeling in his smallest toe. He walked inside the castle and nodded to the gatekeeper. The poor soldier was wrapped in a bunch of furs, covering his face and neck with just a bit of rabbit coat peeking out from over his eyes, under his helmet.

The gate closed and Lord Nestor felt instantly warmer. He made his way into the great hall that was really nothing close to the definition of great. Considering the halls and hearths at Runestone, Longbow Hall, or the Eyrie, the Gates of the Moon was tiny at best. One would figure the winter seat of House Arryn would be something great or beautiful. But no, all money poured into Sky, Snow, Stone, and the Eyrie proper. Despite being the face of the Vale, the Gates of the Moon were barely maintained to a functioning capacity. Now that he was a Lord, Nestor wanted to find a way to fix that. The Gates of the Moon was _his _seat. He couldn't let other Lords of Westeros look at his castle and say that it wasn't fit for a Lord of his stature.

At the end of the far table were two girls sitting across from one another. Lord Nestor walked closer and saw that Alayne and Mya, girls with the name Stone to denote their bastard lineage, were moving crude wooden pieces over a wooden board. The board was divided into sixty-four squares of alternating weirwood and ebony. Alayne appeared to be winning.

Lord Baelish's daughter gathered two forces together of equal size and strength coming at Mya from either direction. Mya Stone, more used to leading mules than armies tried to stop Alayne's forces any way she could. When all else failed, Mya pulled out her dragon from behind the walls and tried to recreate the Field of Fire. In a move Nestor saw from a mile away, Alayne sacrificed her rabble and spearmen to Mya's dragon before taking out the dragon by springing a trap of crossbowmen. Only after Mya's dragon was killed did Alayne bring hers out to mop up Mya's forces. After Mya's dragon was dead, Alayne won in ten turns.

"Sorry, Mya. You can never take our your dragon too early." Alayne said, collecting her pieces into the little wooden box.

"I'll keep that in mind when we play tomorrow. For now, I'm beat." Mya stood, stretched her arms out, and then said, "G'night Alayne. Good evening, Lord Nestor." Mya left for her quarters. Alayne picked up the cyvasse board and was about to retire as well.

"That was a good game, Lady Alayne."

"Thank you, Lord Nestor," Alayne said.

"I wasn't aware that you knew the arts of war." Nestor looked Alayne from head to toe. She was a woman grown, coming up to Nestor's shoulder. Alayne had full breasts that seemed to get bigger every day, and a young beautiful face. She was fifteen years old, but grew and developed like a younger girl. It was her hair that got Nestor the most. Red gold that shone black in the sun. Alayne Stone, if the rumors were right, would soon be Alayne Baelish, the most eligible bachelorette in the Seven Kingdoms and the heir to the Iron Throne, "You should ask the Citadel for your iron links."

Alayne laughed softly, "Thank you, Lord Nestor. It's just a thing or two my father told me. That and lots of practice."

"You sure do play a good game of cyvasse. You could certainly bring the game to court when your father sends for you."

"At court? You don't think my father will return to the Vale?"

Damn. Lord Nestor reminded himself not to validate the rumors he was hearing from mindless, tactless hedge knights and singers, "Your father's in King's Landing. We know he stayed there long enough during King Robert's reign to develop a liking to courtly life. I'm sure he'll send for you soon."

Alayne nodded, "Thank you. Good night, Lord Nestor." She walked away down the same hall that Mya took to her sleeping quarters. Nestor couldn't help but stare at her as she walked away.

Lord Nestor Royce decided he was tired as well and should probably get to bed. Being a Lord in Westeros in service to the (probable) King Petyr Baelish required one to rise early. He went off to his sleeping quarters and lit a pair of candles. He undressed, left one by the beside and left his sword on the table. He was about to put another log on the hearth to get the fire going when he noticed a book on the desk that he was certain was not left there the last time he was in the room. It was hard to tell exactly what the book was in the dim light, but he eventually saw the dark imprint on the cover: a circle over the middle of four double-sided tridents. In between the central ring and the heads were collections of three bars. Twenty-four spearheads, twenty-four bars, it was a powerful and sacred sign the Lord of the Gates remembered from his childhood at Runestone. Truth be told, he just couldn't remember what it was called…

The helm of awe.

That was it. When the Andals invaded Westeros with a seven-pointed star carved in their chests invoking the Warrior's courage, the First Men had the helm of awe tattooed on _their _chests supposedly believing themselves invisible. The Andals won. Nestor only remembered a few stories from when he was eight and crossed sticks with the Bronze Yohn. Ever since leaving Runestone the only runes he ever saw were on shields.

Before Lord Nestor even knew what was happening it already happened. He was on his knees before a man in nothing but a pair of pants and a lacquer mask. He was covered in tattoos. Runes, valknuts, and sacred symbols crisscrossed the man's body. And in the center, over his sternum, was the helm of awe.

He didn't have eyes on the back of his head, but if he did, he was willing to bet he'd see a man that looked similar.

"What are our words?"

Was that what this is about? Old fairy tales from a poetic structure no one uses anymore? "We remember." Nestor answered obediently.

"And what do we remember?"

This was the test. "We remember" were the words of House Royce. The _Andal _words. There was a hidden answer on the underside of every Royce's shield. Written in Runes, pronounced in the Old Tongue of the First Men, it was a single word he couldn't remember at all. It had been forever since this was ever even asked of him. It was never asked! Not even behind closed doors in the darkest wings of the castle of Runestone.

"I… I…" Nestor stammered. He saw the man in front of him brandish an axe. He fingered the handle sensually as Nestor fumbled and struggled to find the word. All it took was one word… but it was gone. Lost in some forgotten corner of his First Men mind mangled and contorted by the ways of the Andals, "I don't remember."

The Lord of the Gates sealed his death with three words of the Common Tongue.


	2. The Iron Captain I

**The Iron Captain**

He wondered briefly if he should make the _Great Kraken his flag ship for the Iron Fleet. It would be a distinct declarative statement: I am Balon Greyjoy's heir. He stepped off the deck of the __Iron Victory and onto the dock at Blacktyde. If it were up to him, they'd keep fighting, pressing on to Pyke, or Harlaw, or maybe all the way to Lonely Light and take the Crow's Eye from the west flank._

No. He wouldn't think about the war right now. His men needed a rest. They'd been at sea for far too long. Going reaving in the Narrow Sea was one thing, fighting other Ironborn in your homeland was another entirely. Victarion could keep fighting until the Drowned God needed a strong oarsmen in his watery halls, but he knew they'd all fight better, harder, and stronger if they rested.

Let them have a drink, dance with their fingers, and have a wench. Death came on the morrow. Lord Baelor Blacktyde opened his hall to Victarion and let him sleep in the crown bedroom. Lord Baelor and Victarion didn't share a faith, but he was a friend to the Iron Fleet and a pious man in his own way. The Drowned God worked in mysterious ways.

When he entered the room with a candle in hand he immediately heard a familiar voice.

"Hello, nuncle."

Victarion dropped the candle and immediately drew the dagger at his belt. Asha was sitting on the edge of the bed with an axe lying on the floor leaning against the side of the bed. There was no other light in the room except a few embers still alive in the hearth and the blue evening streaming through the window.

"Don't look so nervous," his niece said, "If I didn't bring a weapon you would have town me to pieces."

"You think bringing an axe will make me more receptive?"

"I do, in fact." She stood and walked over to the hearth, putting a few logs on the embers along with a set of kindling. In a matter of minutes, the fire began to crackle and the room was alight with a soft orange glow. When the light began to fill the room Victarion saw that there was no one in the room. No men from Asha's ships, no Harlaws ready to cast him into the sea. He was alone in the room with his niece. Curious. She left the axe leaning against the bed. If Victarion was quick he could grab the axe and gut Asha with it. Half of her men would go to him, some to Euron, some to Aeron, most would just go home and leave the war to the Greyjoys. But no man was as accursed as the kinslayer.

"Why are you here?" Victarion broke the silence.

"Same reason you are: to sit the Seastone Chair."

"Why are you _here_?" Victarion repeated with emphasis. He and Asha had been fighting for control of the Chair but hadn't come to blows quite yet. So far, both of them were fighting the Crow's Eye first, the Drowned Men second, and had only given each other far off glances through their far-eyes.

Asha turned to him and smiled, "The real enemy is Euron." She declared. Victarion remembered Euron coming to him and letting him know about his adultery, "I say we work together."

"To what end?"

"To oust the Crow's Eye. We can decide who sits the Seastone Chair after we take it." Asha walked over to the table by the window and poured a flagon of ale.

Before she could turn around and offer it to Victarion he said, "No we can't." Asha handed him the flagon. Which he took in hand and poured on the floor, "The Ironborn will never accept a Queen."

"No, but they'll accept an axe."

"Not when they have axes of their own."

"Fair enough," Asha confessed, "Who said I was that dedicated to the Chair to begin with?" he made eye contact with his niece who had a wicked smile as if she knew a horrific joke, "Combine our strength. I'll support your claim to the Driftwood Crown," and then the joke came, "on one condition: you make me your Hand."

"My Hand?" Victarion repeated, "You think the Ironborn will care that you're standing behind the Chair rather than sitting in it?"

"I do," she protested, "They will see it as a wartime necessity at first and grow to accept it after the fact." Asha poured herself a flagon of ale and drank heartily.

Victarion wanted to laugh, but it wasn't very funny, "So were you my Hand what would you tell me to do with the Drowned Men in Old Wyk? Or the Mallister army at Seagard? Our alliance can face one army. Not three."

"You're right. I say, defeat Euron, and then kneel to the Greenlanders. There's just too many of them."

Victarion scoffed at that, "Surrender? That's your advice after we've come so far?"

"We tried this once before, need I remind you?"

"You need not." Victarion understood and remembered Balon's first Rebellion all too well.

"Then you'll realize that the only reason we succeeded this time was because the Seven Kingdoms were divided four ways. We could have had any chunk we wanted, but the Twice-Crowned wanted the North."

"No one could have expected the enemy kings to steal our own history. It was… unexpected. And so is Baelish's choosing. Any word on who's commanding the Mallister army, yet?"

"My sources tell me that King Littlefinger is handing control of the invasion over to the Valemen. My bet says it will be the Blackfish controlling the swords and the Lords of the Vale controlling the victories."

"You think an old River knight and a few Valemen can best the might of the Ironborn?"

"You know what they say," Asha began, "One Ironborn is worth ten Greenlanders. And they have ten times our number. If we fight each other, nuncle, when the Mallisters and Tullys and Tyrells wash over us, do you think Euron will balk at kneeling? And when Euron is the Lord of the Iron Islands, you and I are rebels. If we can defeat Euron and retain our honor, we're the victorious and Euron's the rebel. Not only that, by the time that Baelish's army lands, we can kneel right away under one condition."

"You think Petyr Baelish will let you be his Hand?"

"Not me. And not his Hand. You. As his Master of Ships."

"And you think King Petyr will accept that?"

"I do. Just grovel a bit and tell him after Baelor was killed and the Kingsmoot ended you wanted nothing more than to deliver the might of the Iron Fleet to the King on the Iron Throne."

Victarion _hated _that plan. The thought of fighting so hard and bleeding through two wars and still bowing to the men of the Greenlands just made him sick. Unfortunately, Asha was right. On the chance this Baelish took after Tywin Lannister, House Greyjoy didn't stand a chance. Not against the whole of Westeros. Harren the Black was only successful because of the Vale, the West, and the Stormlands were all at war with one another.

Aegon came with his dragons. Robert came with Westeros. And now Petyr was here with Robert's strategy and Baelon's shattered Realm.

All of a sudden, Victarion saw the wheels in Asha's head turn. If Victarion was in King's Landing organizing and feeding the King's navy, he'd be in the perfect position to begin funneling all the wealth of Gulltown and White Harbor, Lannisport and Oldtown, into Pyke and control of the seas would be Ironborn once again. Victarion Greyjoy would also be in the perfect (or as any since Harren) to drive the Seven Kingdoms apart. And you know what they say about three times.

"We have to capture Euron first," Asha understood that neither of them could actually kill their own blood, but they could take him and throw him in a Black Cell beneath the Red Keep. Let him die alone. In the dark. And far from the sea.


	3. Catelyn I

**Catelyn**

After the Kingsmoot was over, Catelyn Stark fully expected to return to Winterfell with her good-daughter and begin rebuilding her life. Before Robb went on his mission, he asked her to stay in the capital. That's when Littlefinger named her brother (Lord of the Riverlands) as Master of Coin and Catelyn as a Small Council Adviser.

All these years and Littlefinger never changed. Except now he was King and Lysa was his Queen. She wondered if she was ever returning to Winterfell. Maybe she wouldn't want to return. Edmure, now on the Small Council, mentioned sending her to Riverrun. She could rule over her home as Lady Tully. And later her only son would return to her.

"Good morning, sister." Edmure said as she walked through the doorway to the table. Edmure had a plate in front of him with ham and eggs. Lysa – Queen Lysa – was sitting at the head of the Tully breakfast table with her son, the Lord of the Vale, Warden of the East, and very sickly.

"Good morning, sister." Lysai said. Edmure's greeting had a certain pleasure in it. Cat loved her brother, she loved her sister too, but Lysa's greeting had a certain smug coldness to it. Catelyn wasn't sure what she had to be jealous or smug about, so she ignored it and said good morning to each of her kin individually and with equal warmth. Edmure pulled out a chair for her as a servant began making up a plate for her.

Cat picked up the toast and butter and began eating. The crunchy bread was nice, but her plate lacked the thick meat of Northern cuisine she became accustomed to in Winterfell. There was a trout, however, with a sauce made of lemons and blood oranges with capers over the top. Littlefinger was always so considerate. Giving them traditional Riverlands recipes ever since his coronation.

"So, Edmure, how is your Jonquil?" Lysa said.

Cat turned with a bit full of trout. Edmure began to blush and laughed underneath his breath, "My Jonquil is doing well. Thank you, sister."

She swallowed before asking the question, "You have a Jonquil, brother Florian?" Her brother had plenty of lovers. Somewhere down the line a Tully married a Dornishwoman, and Edmure inherited all her hot blood. At least, Cat was so convinced. It was only a matter of time before he found a beautiful woman in the capital to turn into his lover. Maybe this one would be permanent. Edmure was the Lord of Riverrun. If he died without an heir, the castle, and the Riverlands, would pass to Catelyn, and then to Robb. Unless Edmure wed and bed his Jonquil eventually, her son stood to be one of the most powerful Lords in Westeros. Not that Catelyn didn't like that idea, but there should always be a Tully in Riverrun.

"I do, sister. Although I should emphasize she's no Naerys." He smirked and took another slice of sauced trout. Cat knew what that meant: she was lowborn, not fit to be a Lady of Riverrun.

"Well whoever she is, I hope you will remain the honorable knight, Ser." Cat never forgave her husband for fathering a bastard. For that, she would never forgive herself. Jon Snow was a constant reminder of her husband's failure. But he was a nice boy…

"Me? Marry?" Edmure laughed, "Hah! Do I look like the marriageable type? Women from Riverrun to Dorne will weep on the day Edmure Tully says his vows."

At that moment, their family reunion was interrupted by the King. He strode into the room with his regular brown doublet with a single mockingbird clasp polished to a high sheen. Cat saw Petyr every day since the Kingsmoot ended. And he never changed. He always had the same sly smile and the low, entirely unroyal air around his person. Petyr Baelish was King. Everyone knew it but he was playing games with the mind of the viewer. He was the King, but whenever Cat saw him he was the same old Littlefinger she remembered from the godswood in Riverrun. The same Littlefinger who betrayed Ned Stark in this very castle.

Cat would never forgive him for _that_.

"This is such a familiar image," Littlefinger began, "Breaking fast over sauced trout with the Tullys. Except we're a bit farther south and we have sweetrobin." Petyr walked over to his stepson and kissed him on the forehead, "A welcome addition, I think."

The King sat down next to his Queen and began eating a slice of trout and a piece of well-buttered toast. They began talking of things to do in King's Landing. Cat had to defend her inability to see the city for the sake of the Kingsmoot, and now she had been promoted to not only the Small Council, but was taking care of little Tommen Baratheon ever since his father was killed, his uncles departed for the West, and his mother was executed, and his brother slain by her own son.

"And where is Tommen?" Littlefinger asked.

Cat answered coldly, "He's been sick. The Maester reports he has a fever and is milky pale. I'd prefer him not to be around anyone who might catch his illness."

"Indeed." Petyr said. Robert Arryn needed no help getting ill, "Well there will be more time to discuss poor Tommen. For now, my lady, Ser, we have a Small Council meeting to attend."

Cat and Edmure both finished their last bite, and left behind Littlefinger. As they left, Cat heard Lysa whisper to her son, "Someday, you will sit there and be King of all the Realm."

_Not likely_, Cat thought.

They walked through the Red Keep to the Small Council chamber. There, the other Lords were waiting. But Catelyn paused for a moment before passing through the doorway and stared at the Iron Throne. It was an old ugly chair made from the swords of the vanquished. Cat felt her hands tingle. She imagined the bite of Valyrian steel against her bones and thought what it would be like to feel those blades every day when you took a seat. Aerys Targaryen cut himself so many times they called him King Scab. Maybe a comfy chair could have ended Robert's Rebellion before it began.

_And I'd be wed to Brandon Stark._

Catelyn walked into the chamber and saw a virtual who's who of Petyr's intended kingdom. At the King's seat, Petyr sat proudly. At his right hand, serving as his Hand was the dark skinned Sandy Dornishman Harmen Uller sat in a tunic with a copper trim and the red and yellow colors of Hellholt. At his left hand was Grand Maester Ryam, an elderly man recently arrived from the Citadel with a chain made almost entirely of gold links.

In the absence of Lord Commander Jaime Lannister, it was Ser Osfryd Kettleblack that led the City Watch and sat on Petyr's Small Council. Ser Osney and his brother became infamous in the city for doing nothing to accomplish their knighthood. Nothing, but support Lord Petyr Baelish.

After the horrific death of his older brother, Ser Lucas became the heir to Heart's Home, and was ready to leave for the Vale and become one of Baelish's worst enemies. Instead, Littlefinger offered him the position of Master of Laws.

Ever since Varys' disappearance, it seemed difficult to fill his shoes (small as they were). But all those little birds were wild for coin and offered themselves to Littlefinger's new Master of Whisperers: Ser Imry Florent. Stannis' good-brother seemed suspect at first, but Stannis' own disappearance and Brightwater Keep's support for Littlefinger inspired Petyr to name Ser Imry the Master of Whisperers. Despite being unqualified for the position, Edmure was named to Littlefinger's old seat. And Lord Hightower's heir, Baelor, was named to the seat of Master of Ships.

Petyr sat down and said, "Let's begin, shall we?" he opened a ledger and began with the first item on the list, "It says here 'Invasion of the Iron Islands.' Where are we with that?"

All eyes turned to the Hand, "We've just received a raven from Lord Redfort. He's collected his own men as his honor guard and is distributing the rest of the King's force to his own benefit. Under the command of the various Valelords."

"And Ser Brynden?" Edmure asked.

"No one questions the Blackfish's ability or loyalty. I think it's best to leave himi n charge of the van," Baelor Hightower said. While he may have meant it in good faith of her uncle's ability with a sword, she couldn't help but think that neither Littlefinger, Lord Uller, or Ser Osfryd were hoping Ser Brynden would survive the invasion. Better he die in the Islands a hero than live on to challenge the King's government.

"Indeed, no one is questioning the Blackfish's ability." Ser Osfryd said. The man was young enough to be Catelyn's son.

"No. But if my uncle is given the most dangerous job in the war while the Lords of the Vale sit safely in Seagard, it only seems fit that he be granted a reward for his service." Cat said.

Littlefinger looked down the table at Cat and said, "There will be time for titles and rewards after the war is over, but I'll make a note of rewarding the Blackfish when that happens." He wrote something down in his ledger, "Next on the agenda is the crippling debt Robert left us with."

"And Joffrey," Cat said.

"That said," the Hand of the King said, "I think we can consider the Lannister debt forgiven. Repaid with steel at the Battle of Esgaroth."

"That was only half the debt, though," Edmure began, "We owe a paltry amount to the Tyrells, but the greater part of our debt to the Iron Bank and the Faith." Edmure looked the King in the eye and said, "I'm sure you know this."

"I do." Littlefinger smirked.

"We should be expecting an envoy from Braavos soon enough," Grand Maester Ryam said. He was not nearly as old as Pycelle, and he was twice as impartial. Nevertheless, Cat would be careful what she said around the masters in this rat-infested city.

"I suggest we begin working on this debt. The Iron Bank will have its due, after all. And should they ally with the Faith…" the heir to Hightower didn't have to say it. When a man faulted on his loan to a Tyroshi or a Myrish bank, new princes popped up and wars began. When a man defaulted on his loan to the Iron Bank, a new prince popped up and a war ended. If the Iron Bank allied with the Faith, it meant a pretender to the Iron Throne with a blessing from the High Septon.

"Let's begin with the envoy from Braavos. When he arrives, we'll deal with him then. The High Septon on the other hand," Littlefinger said, "is already in the city."

"I'll speak with him," Edmure said, "Maybe we can bargain with His Holiness to keep him and the Braavosi apart."

"Excellent," Littlefinger said, "Third, we have repairs to see to in the Kingdoms. I hope Riverrun isn't too damaged? On the whole we have smallfolk to deal with."

"Let them work the fields," Ser Lucas said, "Why does the Crown have to concern itself with their troubles?"

"Because they supply our own granaries, Ser Lucas," Littlefinger responded, "The Five Kings did a number on the Riverlands, the West, and the North. If the Small Folk are too busy building their houses and replanting their fields, there will be little incentive for them to support the Crown when winter comes. And you know what the Starks say."


	4. Willas I

**Willas**

Rocky was the last of Nymeria's puppies. He was tiny, wire-haired, gentle, and adorable. He had hair the color of the Red Mountains of Dorne in winter. It regularly stuck up after he was lying down for more than a few minutes. He enjoyed playing with the rest of his pack and learned early not to run under the horse's hooves.

He didn't weigh any more than a stone or two and came up to Willas' knee standing on his hind legs. Nymeria, a beautiful Myrtese Terrier bitch Willas raised from birth, tended to ignore Rocky, leaving him to develop keen friendships with the other members of the pack, but especially his older half-brother Cargo. Cargo was a bastard son of a bitch. He had Nymeria's Myrtese blood, but Willas couldn't identify the father. Nevertheless, Cargo remained one of Willas' favorite dogs. He was gentle, loyal, and tough. He was a good mentor to Rocky, despite how hyper and playful his little brother was.

Rocky's mother was a Myrtese Terrier, his father was a short-haird Starkshire. King Edwyn, the Spring King, was fascinated by dogs as well. He developed the Starkshire from the first Myrtese imported to Winterfell. The new breed was developed to hunt rats that infested the mines of the Wolfswood and the mountains just south of the Wall.

His puppy, born just before Margaery's marriage to Renly Baratheon, bore the rat hunting characteristics of Edwyn's Starkshire and the gentility of their ancestors. Rocky learned early how to bite playfully and smuggle with human companions. Rocky would make the perfect gift for his sister returning from the Kingsmoot.

He leaned over the chair and gathered Rocky in his arm. The puppy nuzzled his neck before licking and teething at Willas' beard. Maester Lomys walked into the kennel and saw Willas as he picked up the puppy and gathered his cane to limp to the door, "Your family has arrived, Lord Willas."

"I'm not Lord yet, Lomys." Willas never grew tired of telling their maester that he wasn't a Lord. In time he would be. In truth, Lordship never truly suited Willas. If it wasn't for Oberyn and his spear, Willas might have joined the Red Viper's sellsword company in the Free Cities. He might have been a general, or a tournament champion. He didn't begrudge the Red Viper. In fact, Oberyn regularly sent him a Sand Steed every year to help his breeding stables. Willas was trying to develop a breeding theory to combine the power of a Courser with the endurance of a Dornish Sand Steed.

Now his yearly steed came to an end. Despite Willas' yearning for Westerosi wilds, the Red Viper gave him a method to do that vicariously. He loved all his animals, and they were just as wild as anything he could ask for.

He walked to the Great Hall where Lord Mace stood there at the front of the table as a squire was already pouring wine into his goblet, "Will!" he shouted, "How's my castle?"

"Still standing," Willas said, "Although I can't say the same about my stables. You couldn't get the Red Viper to name a champion?"

"Good riddance," he said, taking a drink. The long ride back from King's Landing must have been odious. Lord Mace offered his daughters hand to a suspected homosexual just so she could be the Queen behind the Iron Throne. Now, there was no suspecting. Thanks to some knight, the world knew Renly's secret, and Margaery was subject to a loveless marriage. Willas wasn't surprised when he saw Margaery walk into the hall holding their grandmother's hand.

Garlan the Gallant came last carrying a set of books in his hands. He set them down at the table and handed one to Willas, "Cat Stark let me take out a few volumes from the Red Keep's shelves. Thought you might like this."

Willas set the cane down against the table and sat down. He took the book with one hand and opened to the title page, _Seven Years in Vaes Dothrak_, by Maester Errer. Willas thought Vaes Dothrak was probably a hotbed for equine husbandry without even knowing it. Perhaps Maester Errer could give some insights into how the Dothraki bred their horses, or what qualities they preferred out on the steppe.

"Who's this little guy?" Garlan asked.

"Oh," Willas lifted the puppy up and handed him to his younger brother, "This is Rocky, the last of Nymeria's litter. Isn't he adorable?"

"I'll say." Garlan let Rocky lick and nip at his beard for a time before finally letting him on the ground, "The last of Nymeria's litter. Lady Cuy picked up his sister yesterday afternoon."

"Hellow Will!" Margaery's voice was always sweet to Willas' ears. She let go of Lady Olenna's arm and leaned over to kiss Willas on the cheek, "How have you been, big brother?"

Willas returned the kiss and said, "I've been well. Doing my usual. Do you remember Nymeria's puppies?"

"Of course!" Willas took the puppy from Garlan's arms and handed Rocky to Margaery.

She laughed as the little dog licked her chin and nose, "His name is Rocky. You should have him. He fits your temperament."

"Oh, Will, you're always so technical. You know I don't know the first thing about what you do in the kennels. Well, I guess I know the _first _thing about animal breeding, but that's about it." Lady Leonette entered the Hall and kissed Garlan, her husband. She said hello to her good-father and Willas and then drew Margaery away. Willas was left with his father, Garlan, and Lady Olenna.

Garlan poured the other three goblets of wine until the silence was overwhelming. Finally Lady Olenna looked up and said, "Well, now what, Lord Oaf?"

Mace Tyrell swallowed what was left in his goblet and poured another, "Give it a rest, mother."

"What did I say to you when this began? Renly is Robert's _youngest _brother and he has _two _sons. If we lost in battle, we would have lost everything. And now, we basically have. Renly had no claim to that Throne before Catelyn Stark swept in with her ideas. And it worked for a bit, you should have seen it Will, Renly was only a few feet from that stupid iron chair. Of course, now look at him, gone to Storm's End riding a cask of Arbor red with the wrong Tyrell."

That came as a surprise, "Loras isn't here?"

"No," Mace said belcing, "I forbid Margaery to go with that… that _stag _back to Storm's End."

"A stag with too many horns, if you ask me," Lady Olenna said.

"Yes, but we were unable to stop Loras from leaving with Renly," Garlan said, "Given the state the Lord of Storm's End was in when we left him, I expect we'll see Loras before long."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the poor sod spent his whole career waiting for that seat and expected to win by smiling and holding parties. Now it slipped from his fingers and the only way he could handle it is like any other King who lost his crown: with some booze and bedsheets," she certainly did earn the name Queen of Thorns, "though to be honest I never understood the purpose of poofters. They're not quite eunuchs, but if they don't use their parts properly, what's the point? Loras was a good lad and a strong sword, but Garlan's the better sword and lady Leonette will be pregnant sooner or later… if Garlan knows how to use _that _sword as well as _that _one."

"I assure you, grandmother, we're doing our best. But even still. _I'm _not the heir to Highgarden."

"This is true." The Queen of Thorns said, "Which brings us to you, Lord Willas. We know _your _sword works just fine. That Dornishman just injured your leg, thank the gods. But we should begin discussing your marriage."

"I'm open to any match, grandmother."

"Well, let's find one soon, Will. Lord Oaf won't be alive forever. I'll say, I met the Princess of Dorne in Bitterbridge. A lovely girl, Will. Beautiful, and hey, maybe you could even convince the Dornishmen to restore Tyrell over the Florents. Ironic. Although you'd have to wait. She was _quite _pregnant, and you'd want to at least wait before you took another man's leftovers."

Willas had only ever heard of Arianne Martell in passing. He'd never considered that they might get married, or that he'd ever marry a Dornishman.

"That is, if your oaf father left you anything to inherit. How much did we lost, Lord Tyrell?"

As if he was enormously tired of hearing his failures, Lord Tyrell exasperatedly said, "We're no longer Wardens of the South, nor Lords Paramount of the Reach. Both positions are now held by the Florents. I wish you wouldn't worry, mother. There is time to recollect, reorganize, rebuild. We still retain the Lordship of Highgarden. No King can take that away. It'll take way more than an army to take that away."


	5. Daughter of the Crossing

**Daughter of the Crossing**

She'd come to look at the Greatjon as the father she never had. Sure Lord Walder was alive, but despite his longevity and fertility, the Lord of the Crossing was already ancient when Roslin was born. The Greatjon's beard was more salt than pepper, but he was strong and protective. He and his hammer were hardly ever out of sight.

That's why Roslin felt more comfortable when the Greatjon offered to join her when she aske for an audience with Lord Walder. Her blood father was hunched over and ready to keel over. Roslin, who at least found her reflection somewhat pretty to look at, liked to hope Robb found her beautiful despite her weasel-faced lineage to the Lords of the Crossing. That made it even harder to draw the straight line from Lord Walder to Roslin Frey.

"Is that my lowly Lady of the North?" Lord Walder asked. Even though that's all they signed up for, Lord Walder was clearly upset that he would not grandsire a royal lineage. That was no fault of Roslin's, but apparently he thought so.

"It is, Lord father. I hoped it would please you to know I am with child. I carry the heir to Winterfell in front of you today."

"Very well," he was clearly not impressed, "Who's this hulking beast of a man?"

"The Greatjon Umber, at your service, Lord Walder." The Northman (and the other Riverlords) did not hide their feelings for Lord Walder. Her Tully acquaintances called him "the Late Lord Frey" ever since he showed up at the Trident _after _the battle was already won.

"Are you here for a social visit, Lord Umber?" they were sitting in the Great Hall of the Twins' eastern castle. A dozen of her brothers and sisters sat on either side of Lord Walder along with her stepmother Lady Joyeunse. She was only a year older than Roslin, and twice as pregnant.

"Afraid I'm not. Here to protect your daughter. That's the truth of it."

"I wasn't aware my daughter needed protection all the way from Last Hearth. I'd hoped to provide her with sufficient protection from the Twins."

"Indeed, father. Ser Olyvar has been my closest protection ever since my husband was sent on the King's business." Olyvar squired for Robb all through the war, and was knighted in King's Landing. Robb ordered him to guard Roslin. To which her brother, a year her senior, responded he would "guard her with his life."

"And what King's business is that?" he asked.

"I was not told."

Lord Walder _hmph_'d at that. Roslin saw in his face that Lord Walder believed he was trading Roslin in favor of Robb. Frey daughters were only good for securing son-in-laws, "Well then, what do you want?"

Here it was. Roslin looked over at her brothers and sisters. They were all looking at Roslin with inquisitive eyes. She had to admit that technically, she was higher than anyone else in the family, including her lord Father. She was married to the Lord Paramount of the North, while her father was only the High Lord of the Crossing, the Greatjon was only the High Lord of Last Hearth. Most of her half-brothers and half-sisters were doomed to be courtiers of the Twins until they could find spouses of their own. Most likely other courtiers.

Her… nephew Ryman would be an exception. Him and his line would at least decently marry.

"Is there a place we can speak privately, my Lord?" Roslin asked.

Her father rolled his eyes and reeled his head back, "Fine. Get out, the lot of you."

"Grandfather, should I…" it was her nephew Ryman. _Nephew _just sounded like the wrong word. Ser Ryman was old enough to have an eight-year old granddaughter. Roslin was closer in age to Walda than Ryman. Walda was also far more likely to be Lady of the Crossing than Ryman was to be Lord. No matter how many decades ticked by, Lord Walder wouldn't die. Her poor brother Ser Stevron died during the war, tired of waiting for his inheritance.

"No. You leave with the rest." Ser Ryman stood and departed grudgingly. Lord Walder's aging gaze became fixed on the Greatjon. Before he could say anything, Roslin turned to Lord Umber and said, "I can handle it form here, Lord Greatjon."

"Are you sure, my lady?" she nodded, "You need assistance, just call for me." The Greatjon, with Robert's war hammer slung across his back, turned and said, "C'mon Ser Oly, let's leave the lady and your father be."

Lord Walder called for a man from the shadows. When he emerged from behind one of the banners bearing the blue towers, he was wearing what appeared to be a gray master's robe, but no chain. In deft contrast to Lord Walder who looked like some skulking gengal creature, the man who walked into the room looked like a grandfather Roslin never knew.

"Qyburn, if you could examine my daughter and please keep her healthy. If my reward for assisting the North's failed war is to grandsire the Lord of Winterfell, then I shan't lose that investment."

"If it please you, father, I have an issue to discuss first." Roslin held her hands defensively over her belly.

"Children. They only come home when they want something."

"Isn't it true that you married me to take influence over the court at Winterfell?"

"Heh," Lord Walder croaked, cracking a broken toothed smile, "Is that what you've brought me?"

"An opportunity for such."

"I have little use for opportunities. Your mother once told me children are opportunities and I have more of those than I know what to do with. I finally make a royal match, and look at you. That opportunity was squandered."

"I apologize if I've disappointed you, father. I have done nothing but defend and work for the benefit of your House."

"So you have. And you've wasted little time getting pregnant, I see. I suppose that is better than not. What is it you've come to ask?"

"Winterfell is a burned husk. Would you have your daughter, married to one, and carrying another Lord Paramount of the North, live in a shattered castle with blackened walls and broken hearths?"

"When I wed you to Robb the Boy, I was handing him responsibility. Where he chooses to make his bed is no concern of mine."

"No, but it is mine."

"So I ask once more, what do you want?"

"The Lords of the Crossing are more famous for building the Twins than Brandon for his Wall."

"Heh!" Lord Walder tried not to chuckle so he didn't erupt into a coughing fit, "Flattery is lying's third cousin."

"Well Brandon the Builder was a mythic hero. The Freys who erected the Twins were flesh and blood. That must count for something. I beseech you, Lord Father, provide some funds and materials to restore Winterfell. Cementing the peacetime alliance between Stark and Frey."

"Cement our alliance?" Lord Walder did not like the sound of that, "Wasn't warming his bed enough?"

Roslin wished it was, "It never is, Lord Father."

That was when Qyburn spoke up. He had a voice every bit as warm as Lord Walder's was scratched, "Perhaps a compromise, Lord Frey. In addition to funds, the builders should be made of Frey bannermen, and until the building is complete, the Castellan of Winterfell should also be a Frey. That way to better coordinate the activities of the castle with the building." Roslin had to wonder who Lord Qyburn was pretending to help, her or the Lord of the Crossing.

Lord Walder was muttering to himself before he finally said, "Have Ser Edwyn command it. That should keep him busy without waiting for my death. When he asseses the damage, send a raven for further supplies."

Roslin smiled, "Thank you, Lord Father."

"On one condition."

"Of course."

"Your child. When he is of age, will be fostered here at the Twins. If I'm going to pour men and gold into Winterfell, I need assurance those bricks will not come back to haunt me."

"Did it ever occur to you, Lord Father, that if you had fewer children, they might have been more valued by the Lords of Westeros? You have enough children to marry into every keep and hold in the Realm. When one Lord says he has a claim to the Crossing through his wife, so will every other Lord and Knight."

Lord Walder's chapped lips cracked into a smile, "Heh. Perhaps, sweetness. Perhaps. Now, on the table if you please, I'd like Qyburn to take a look at you, and make sure my investment is sound."


	6. Iron Bull I

**Iron Bull**

The Kingsroad was hardly lonely, but desolate was an accurate if misleading name. It was filled with refugees trying to find a way south into the city, many leading north under the pretense that the fighting had ended, while others wandered aimlessly doing little besides curse, pray, and stare at him suspiciously.

More than once he could see or hear men off in the fields or trees brandishing dropped swords, pitchforks, or crude cudgels. But the Bull had a long sword, a dirk, a long and a short bow, and a quiver full of arrows. He wore an iron helmet shaped like a bull's hea, which must have scared off the bandits because they fled whenever he looked sideways at them.

As he promised the King in the North… the Lord of the North, he was on a mission and would tear apart the Seven Kingdoms if it meant he would find those girls. Girls he knew as sisters.

But as the Bull looked out on the desolate countryside of the Riverlands, it just seemed impossible. Perhaps shredding the Seven Kingdoms was the only way to accomplish that.

Ever since leaving King's Landing, he must have seen a thousand girls of any age between three and twenty. How many of them were maids was anyone's guess. A few of them looked at the Bull and fingered crude shivs, stolen rusted knives, or broken blades. The Bull never meant them any harm. One night, he actually shot a stag and feasted a collection of peasants, armed girls, and probably a couple bandits in between.

He found it was a reputation he didn't mind having. Somewhere between King's Landing and Lord Harroway's Town, he became known as "the Good Bull," or to some as "the Benevolent Bull," which later became "Benny Bull."

And with every deer he shot and shared with passersby on the Kingsroad, the Bull fished little by little for his ultimate prize. Unfortunately, the Bull could only cast a very wide net if any at all.

"I'm looking for a pair of maids. One three-and-ten with auburn hair. Another three years younger with a dark crop."

"_Two_ maids? Rare in these parts."

"Two _maids_? T'ain't maids no more."

"A maid with a dark crop of hair? You're describing half of them."

"Maid with auburn hair? It's a bit grubby out there. Hard to spot any shade this side of black."

"Maid? In the Riverlands? Not any more."

It was enough for the Bull to grow discouraged. All these hungry people were right. A maid in any Realm after any war was a rare thing. Two maids even more so. His plan was to go all the way to Winterfell and look for the girls under every rock in between. And when he reached Winterfell, if they weren't there, he'd turn back and look all the way south to Dorne. He would find these girls, or die trying.

One night he shot a deer. An odd couple of a maid of ten-and-six and a former farmer with a pitchfork as his primary weapon cooked the deer when almost two dozen refugees of all shapes and sizes gathered around them to ask for a piece of the feast. A Septon allowed everyone to take a slice of the venison but told them to wait. The Bull took his slice and waited. After all of them had a piece, the Septon lifted his own to the sky and began to pray: "O Father who judges us all. O Mother who care for us when we fall. O Maiden who guards our purity. O Smith who works so ferociously. O Crone with her lamp so bright. O Warrior, with all your might. O Holy Seven, with your sacred yield, look down on us and bless this meal."

The Bull didn't wait for the Septon's prayers to finish. He stabbed the deer with his dirk and began devouring it in the dim light of an autumn evening. Everyone saw that he didn't wait for the Septon to bless the meal, but since it was the Bull who skewered the deer, no one protested. That is, until the Septon walked over and sat down next to him.

"Do you have a name, ser?"

"No."

"Ah. I understand."

The Bull was surprised by that, "You do?"

"Indeed. My friend has never told me his name before. But he is still my best friend," a brown mutt wandered over to the Septon's side where the Septon tore off a chunk of his meal and fed it to him, "He's never told me his name. So I just call him Dog."

"Just call me the Bull."

"Your helmet is just a piece of iron. It is your sigil?"

"It may as well be. My old sigil is not something I want out in the open for people to see."

"Ah. Shame." The Septon began eating from what was left of his slab of meat, "Have no fear. I shan't pry any more than that. Did you fight in the war?"

"I did." He'd thought the Septon wasn't going to pry any more. So much for that, "What's _your _name? Or should I just call you _Septon_?"

"You can call me Meribald."

"Did you ever fight in a war, Meribald?"

"I did."

"then you know it does things to people. People like me." The Bull finished the last piece of venison before he felt sick and handed the rest to Dog.

"Indeed." Septon Meribald said, "Indeed, I do. I've seen thousands of boys cut down by war. Each of them, whether walking or lying, every bit as broken as you." The Bull didn't like to be thought of as "broken" but he understood what the Septon meant.

"Where did you fight?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does." The Bull tought of all the places he had been. The ones that drew blood were the worst, but there was a huge difference between the Whispering Wood and Winterfell.

"The Stepstones, the Disputed Lands. Too many steps to count. Too many fallen brothers to bear."

"War of the Ninepenny Kings?"

"So they called it…" he took a bite and then nodded, "And how many battlefields have you seen?"

"The Whispering Wood," was all the Bull felt comfortable enough to say. Winterfell might give him away. The Stony Shore definitely. He considered adding Pyke to the list. The battle he had with the Kraken and his daughter was the worst slaughter he ever experienced.

"That's the way of war, Ser Bull. You fought in the War of the Five Kings. Which of them retained their crown? I joined my brothers against Maelys the Monstrous, but I never saw a King, nor earned a Penny."

_I saw a King_, the Bull thought_, I saw two Kings, one I once called brother, and one I once called father, though neither would call me that now, _"I can relate."

"But look at you now, doing the Gods' work. Feeding the hungry and looking for the lost."

"I feed people to discourage them from killing me, and I'm looking for these maids because… because I must."

"Alas, Gods' work."

The Bull didn't follow the Septon's Seven. Even the God he was baptized under no longer earned the Bull's favor. What kind of God would create creatures like him?

"I work for no God. All I do I do for an oath I swore to a _man_."

"And? Man is the Smith's finest craft. Elegant in design, eternal in capability, much like the Holy Seven themselves. Your motivations may have worldly solutions, but to others, you are a divine offering. You give them hope aside from nourishment. And for two young maidens, you are the Warrior come again. You'll rescue them."

The Bull didn't want to contest Septon Meribald. He had an impossible mission. He could use a little divine intervention, "I certainly hope so."

"Where are you going to search for them?"

"I'm taking the Kingsroad to Winterfell. Then I'll come back south and search again."

"I turn toward Maidenpool on this part of my Riverlands circuit. Join me and we can search there."

_Maidenpool? _"No, thanks."

"It's on your way north. Not far from the Kingsroad. You never know. They could be hiding in a town right under your nose. It'd be silly to go all the way to Winterfell than just simply check the town."

"Fine," the Bull said, "But why do you want me to go to Maidenpool so badly?"

"I do the Gods' work, Ser Bull. As do you. Seldom do I find someone else so obviously and blatantly under inspiration from the divine. You may not know the Gods, but you have quite a lot of faith to be on an impossible mission."


	7. Tyrion I

**Tyrion**

The last time Tyrion was at Casterly Rock was before the War. It was back when Jon Arryn was still Hand of the King. Tyrion was sure Lann the Clever would agree: The Rock looked as regal and formidable as ever. And Jaime just proved a month ago that the Rock was indeed impregnable. If the stories were to be believed, that meant only trickery could oust the ruling house from Casterly Rock. Then again, the singers also said Lann tricked the sun into giving him its fire, turning Lannister hair gold forever after.

There was no fanfare, no welcoming entourage, not even so much as a trumpet. The rightful Lord of Casterly Rock had come home and no one would know until tomorrow. Tyrion and Ser Kevan rode up to the gates, keeping one eye on the sun setting over Lannisport.

When Tyrion walked through the gates, Maester Creylen greeted him with some surprise, "My Lord, we were not expecting you tonight."

"You weren't?"

"We thought you would stay in the capital."

"There's little for a Lannister there. That's all I'll say. If you don't mind, Maester, we're hungry and tired for the journey. If you could take care of the package in the cart. Don't feel the need to be gentle."

"Tyrion…" Ser Kevan protested.

"Ser Kevan, I am open to your counsel, but not in this area. I am the Lord of Casterly Rock. My word is iron. Or I guess gold in this case."

Tyrion, the Lord of Casterly Rock – now wasn't that something? – left his horses and the train of men and went to his old room. It was his _old _room because Tyrion would soon be moving into the solar of the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. His father's room.

In his own, Tyrion lit a candle and prepared the hearth in preparation for… what? He couldn't say. But the thought of losing the war, the Handship, and the Kingsmoot irked Tyrion in the worst way. Thank the gods he didn't lose the Rock. He would have to light a candle at the Sept and kiss Jaime when he saw him.

There was a light knock on the door and a servant opened it, "My Lord, a Lady Shae is here for you."

"Send her in." Tyrion said.

Shae entered and said, "Lady Shae?" her accent was adorable. Tyrion was the only one who knew she was a whore. Here, she could be anybody: a noble lady from across the Narrow Sea, for example.

Before she could say anything to question her identity, Tyrion said, "Yes, my lady. Now come in here before I explode."

She laughed and walked over to the bed. She undressed, but slowly. Tyrion threw off his pants and then climbed on top of the bed to help Shae throw off her dress. She squeeled like a handmaiden invited to a High Lord's bed and immediately showed her skills by taking him into her mouth. Tyrion never asked, but he was willing to bet that she was trained in the Lyseni Seven Sighs. Tyrion spent himself over Shae's neck and collar.

He collapsed onto the bed and sighed. _It's good to be the Lord of the West_. Shae cleaned herself with a towel hanging by the bath and then walked around the room in the bright light of the roaring fire. Tyrion watched as she ran her hands over Tyrion's extensive bookshelves. He liked to think about which books she walked past. There was Tyrion's first edition of the _Conquest of Dorne_. There was an illuminated pre-Conquest manuscript of _The Seven-Pointed Star_ at the center of Tyrion's collection of theology and philosophy. There was a copy of Boethyus's _Consolation _and Tommen Aquinas' _Sum of Theology_. Tyron remembered when he wanted to be the High Septon. The illuminated _Seven-Pointed Star _was his pride-and-joy, the centerpiece of his library. It still was. Despite being more cynical than younger Tyrion, older Tyrion still liked the manuscript for its artistic value.

Shae walked past it and reached Tyrion's collection of Qartheen woodcuts, Lyseni silk manuscripts, and the Volantene _Threads of Pleasure_. Tyrion couldn't read too much of the Volantene mangled Valyrian alphabet, but he sure as hell enjoyed the pictures. He'd have to introduce Shae to the fine literature of the East.

"Have you read all threes books, my lord?"

"Most of them," Tyrion said, "I'll probably have a lot more time to read now that I'm out of the capital." That was the silver lining, but Tyrion was never the kind to get excited over the rain clouds of his life. There had to be something else. Tyrion tasted victory. Now he wanted the whole pie.

He stood and put his pants on. The Lord of Casterly Rock pulled out the Volantene book and handed it to Shae, "Enjoy yourself, my dear."

He walked over to the table and pulled out a large map of Westeros from the bottom drawer. It was a simple map that had the old borders of the Lord Paramountcies: the nine provinces Aegon formed from the Seven Kingdoms of old. The five major cities were all clearly marked, along with the major castles of the Realm. Tyrion pulled out a pen and a sheet of paper. He began to write the names of key players of the game. He wrote his own name and Ser Kevan's and put them on Casterly Rock. He wrote "Littlefinger" and the names of his Small Council and dropped them on King's Landing. He wrote "Renly" and "Loras" and dropped them on Storm's End. Tyrion spent the next hour writing the names of as many High Lords and Ladies of Westeros as he could think of to write and place on the map. He found that he had an unfortunately large "unknown" pile. Sansa and Arya Stark were both on the list, Varys was prominent, and he had to admit to himself that except for a few names on the list, all of those people one the map could be anywhere. They did have lags.

Still, what could Tyrion possible do with this information? Littlefinger had Tommen. Cersei refused his offer to come to Casterly Rock. The Lannisters maintained their position in the West. But they were surrounded by enemies: Littlefinger to the east, the incendiary Florents and unendearing (and emasculated) Tyrells to the south. Except for what forces Ser Kevan and Jaime managed to collect, the armies of the West have been largely destroyed. They were devoid of actual allies, but looking at the map, Tyrion saw only two advantages: the gold of Casterly Rock, and potential. Tyrion once hoped to turn King Joffrey's enemies against each other. Instead, Catelyn Stark came along and the Kingsmoot gave victory to Petyr Baelish. He noticed a name on his "unknown" pile: Jaime Lannister. How did he miss that?

Tyrion looked over and noticed Shae on the bed with the Volantene book opened to a drawing of a man fucking two women. She was on her back, her legs as wide open as the book, her hands between the fold rubbing and touching herself with the gentle push and experience that only a woman would know.

He walked over to the door and told the guard "Go to my uncle. Ask if he knows where my brother is."

"Yes, m'lord." The guard walked off.

Tyrion went back to the mapand tried to concentrate on the possibilities. There was no chance for a Lannister bloodline to sit the Iron Throne. Not in Tyrion's lifetime. Even if King Littlefinger actually did plan on marrying his legitimized bastard to Tommen, Tyrion was skeptical that he'd ever see him on the Throne. Especially after his moonlight meeting with Catelyn Stark.

To be honest, it was hard to concentrate with Shae touching herself like that. The way she sighed and shook, Tyrion thought the whole castle might hear before too long. When it became too hard for Tyrion to resist, he felt like telling her to stop, remembered that he gave Shae the book in the first place.

A knock finally came at the door. Tyrion walked over and opened the door only a crack. Instead of a guard with a message, he saw his uncle there, refreshed and bathed after the long and dusty Goldroad.

"I told you to ask my uncle a question, not bring him here."

"I insisted on bringing you this information personally," Ser Kevan made to enter Tyrion's room. For a split second, Tyrion considered not letting his uncle inside. But admitting his guilt was not the way to go. He was the rightful and effective Lord of Casterly Rock. If he wanted to sleep with Lady Shae, he had that right. No one protested that Tytos Lannister had a paramour, just that he dressed her in his dead wife's clothes and sat her at the high table for distinguished Lords and Ladies.

"Come in, my lord." Tyrion opened the door. Ser Kevan walked inside and, of course, had to stop and stare at Lady Shae pleasuring herself on Tyrion's bed. Shae looked over and said, "Good evening, my lord."

Ser Kevan turned his head and glared at Tyrion, "Lady Shae, please, my uncle and I have some things to discuss."

Shae stopped touching herself and said, "Apologies, my lord." She closed the book and walked to where her dress was lying in a crumpled heap next to the bed. "This way, if you please, uncle." Tyrion led Ser Kevan to the table with his war map.

Ser Kevan spent a few minutes just staring at Westeros and all the names, "What are these?"

"Those are my unknowns." Tyrion took up Jaime's name, "So I ask you, where is my brother?"

"I know he went to Silverhill to accept the Serrett surrender, stands to reason he's at the Golden Tooth to accept theirs." Tyrion set down Jaime's name at the Tooth. It was an important castle to secure. There were three land routes to the West: the Goldroad, the Oceanroad, and the Riverroad. The Goldent Tooth guarded this passage from the Riverlords. It was this route that Robb Stark took as he marched on Casterly Rock.

"What about the rest of these names?" Ser Kevan asked.

"Allies, enemies, various persons of interest."

"We are not at war, Tyrion."

"Maybe not, but you and I both know that Littlefinger is not a friend."

"Fair enough. What did you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure yet. Give me a week and I'll work something out."

Ser Kevan looked over at Shae, "And her?"

"Don't worry about her. She prefers to work me out."


	8. Alayne I

**Alayne**

She woke up one morning, and as usual, reminded herself that she was Alayne, a bastard girl. She put on her clothes and made her way to the dining hall where breakfast was being prepared. Alayne and Mya Stone, a bastard in truth as well as name, and they exchanged morning pleasantries.

It was customary to wait for the Lord of the castle before breaking fast. But he seemed to not appear. Alayne, Mya, and a dozen courtiers waited and waited but no Lord Nestor arrived. It got to the point where there was a verbal cry of questions. By now servants were investigating. It was certainly possible that Lord Nestor was sick, or otherwise indisposed. But why he wasn't present was still confusing.

Finally, a face appeared at the front door of the hall and a Lady Jenet stood and expressed her thankfulness that Lord Nestor was healthy and present. Lord Nestor nodded silently. The servant then explained that the Lord of the Gates of the Moon had a sore throat and couldn't speak very well. Alayne noticed that Lord Nestor certainly did not look sick. He certainly refused to speak, and he helpfully nodded along as the servant explained what caused all of the confusion.

Alayne held her tongue from her suspicions. She enjoyed her meal, but kept a single eye on Lord Nestor. He filled his plate with very little food, and ate even less. As Alayne watched him, he kept his eyes on her, taking a moment only to survey the rest of the hall and examine everyone else.

Finally, just as Lady Anderlin began discussing the state of affairs the Iron Throne was in last winter, Lord Nestor excused himself. The guests at the table all stood and bid Lord Nestor good health. Just prior to leaving the hall, Lord Nestor very mysteriously lingered at the door, turned toward Alayne, and made eye contact. It was a connection that didn't last very long. Only Alayne and Lord Nestor knew the connection happened at all.

He left the hall and allowed Alayne to finish her meal in peace. When Mya redirected the conversation to possible dragon placement on the cyvasse board, ALayne forgot about Lord Nestor.

Life at the Gates of the Moon was incredibly slow. In comparison to the Eyrie, or even Lannister captivity in King's Landing. Not to say she didn't prefer the safety of the Gates as opposed to the Red Keep. But if only she knew what turns the war had taken. Was her brother alive? Was her mother all right?

She knew that Theon killed her brothers in Winterfell and that her sister was lost in the Riverlands. Most likely dead.

Theon Greyjoy was Lord Eddard's ward after Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. He became something of an older brother to the Stark children, living with them, eating with them, and learning with them. If King Robert hadn't showed up at Winterfell two years ago, she might have been betrothed to Theon, to tie Houses Stark and Greyjoy by marriage as well as by military.

No. Alayne had never been to Winterfell and never met Theon Greyjoy. Her mother was already dead. She had no brothers or sisters. And she was never betrothed to a King, nor any highborn boy. She was a bastard girl. That was all.

Still, life at the Gates of the Moon was dull. At least if they had news of the war, Alayne could figure out if it was safe to travel. The Vale should still be safe. No Lannister army entered, and would have to pass through the Gates to even do so.

So what was going on out there?

The only thing that Alayne had to look forward to as she wandered the castle were the cyvasse games she and Mya played just before bed. Alayne won four out of every five games. Mya was a decent player, but Alayne had all day to do noting but peruse the library, listen to the conversations in the castle, and think. Mya had other duties to attend to: caring for mules, mainly.

Before her father, Lord Petyr, left for King's Landing he suggested that Alayne study Daeron's Conquest of Dorne. Alayne asked why, but he only answered, "You and I both know there's no such thing as fairy tales."

So Alayne began reading Daeron Targaryen's memoir: _The Conquest of Dorne_. It was filled with archaic terrain maps showing the goat track Daeron used to catch the Dornish host unawares in the Prince's Pass. By the end of the book, Alayne revered Daeron as a military genius. Had King Robb Stark been the Young Dragon come again?

She continued to study the Conquest, moving to Maester Kaeth's _Lives of Four Kings_. Because as everyone knew, Daeron's Conquest didn't last. The Young Dragon spent ten thousand men to conquer Dorne, and fifty thousand to hold it. After the Tyrell overlord King Daeron left in place was assassinated via scorpion, all that work was undone in a fortnight. Daeron never got to write _The Loss of Dorne_.

Daeron may have known war, but he did not know politics or people. After the Conquest, he allowed a Reachman to rule and turn the Dornishmen out of their castles as he moved to consolidate his fated reign. Alayne couldn't help but think a Northlord would have been better suited for that task. Being a minority in Westeros, the Northmen would have understood cultural sensitivity. Even a Riverlord, or a Westerlord, or even a Valelord would have been better than a Reachlord. The Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne had a feud that extended back to the days of the Seven Kingdoms.

Why would Lord Baelish want his daughter to study a war that was ultimately meaningless?

Maester Kaeth was, quite obviously, far more impartial than Daeron was. He revealed Daeron's estimates of the Dornish armies to be ridiculous. Even by today's standards, the numbers of Daeron's military would be difficult at best. Unlike the fertile Reach, a lot of Dorne was empty desert. Kaeth revealed that while Daeron was a brilliant field commander, it was ultimately the Dragonstone fleet that sailed directly to Sunspear and forced the Dornish into a two-front war. It split up the Dornish army into two theatres, otherwise Daeron never would have been able to cross the desert with enough men to capture a Sunspear at full-strength.

Kaeth evened out Daeron's Conquest. He showed Alayne that there were heroes and monsters on both sides. Even in a certain point of view, Baelor the Blessed could be seen as a monster.

But it was Baelor who laid the ground work, Aegon IV who tried to undo it, and it was Daeron – the Second – that truly conquered Dorne.

And that was what Alayne learned by studying Daeron's Conquest, it was marriage that conquered Dorne, not military might.

Unfortunately, Daeron's _Conquest _proved more useful on the cyvasse board than his cousin's bedroom battles. She supposed that it all pertained to whatever was happening in the world. Alayne knew little of swords, but she could follow Daeron II's method when it came her turn to play the game of thrones.

Mya won the game that night. Alayne explained she was a bit distracted. She pointed to the copy of _Four Kings _next to her and said she was learning about the Battle of Redgrass Field. She wanted to try a few strategies from that. Mya smiled and said, "Next time, maybe." She went to bed. Alayne moved the pieces and the board into the wooden box and collected her book to go back to her chambers. In her room, Alayne read one more chapter of Kaeth's book, about the Blackfyre Rebellions, and prepared herself for bed. She set Kaeth down on her desk next to the copy of King Daeron, but then she noticed the book that already inhabited that space.

She thought it was a copy of the _Seven-Pointed Star, _at quick glance, the design on the front cover bore a similarity to the insignia of the Faith.

But this sign had eight points, not seven. And each point had two coming off that: eight tridents arranged in a circle, with three smaller lines in the middle of each trident. When Alayne opened the book, she saw that it wasn't written in the Common Script of the Andals, but rather a blockish and archaic form of writing that looked like it should be carved on stone, not inked onto paper.

What was it doing on her desk? Alayne didn't put it there. If it was on the library bookshelf, she probably wouldn't have given it a second look. But it was here, on her desk, and she could swear she never saw it before.

Alayne finally decided she'd figure out the mystery of the book after she had some decent sleep. She put her head on the pillow to sleep and reminded herself of her real name. She wasn't Alayne. She wasn't a bastard girl. She was…

… running. It was a strange experience because she never ran. She never had the need to run. Not like her sister or her brothers who ran everywhere. She always had the opportunity to walk in a dignified fashion, but now she was running like an animal.

She looked all around her and saw trees illuminated by moonlight. She saw dark shadows through the trees, finally realizing they were wolves. Only after the treeline ended did she stop running and look around and down. She saw that she had four furry paws, was running through the Wolfswood, and was now looking south at the walls of Winterfell. The wolves all gathered around her, as if they were closing off every road except the one that led to the castle.

She followed the road and walked through the walls of Winterfell. Everyone was sleeping. She didn't recognize half of the faces. There were Riverlanders flying under the blue towers. There were Mormonts and Umbers all sleeping there. But where were the Starks? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. But there wasn't.

Finally, she stepped down into the crypts, where the wolves were pointing. As she stepped through the door, she was human again. She had her old auburn hair, and was wearing a wool winter dress. But it wasn't the gray and white of Stark, it was black and brown.

She walked through the crypts, past her father, and her aunt and uncle. She walked past all the Lords of Winterfell and reached the lower level, where the ancient Kings in the North lay entombed, guarded by stone direwolves after their iron swords rusted away into dust. Lower and lower she descended, past the weathered faces and direwolves that hardly resembled an animal any longer.

At the very end of the crypt, where Brandon the Builder was as gone as a ghost, stood a monstrous skeleton. It was an enormous beast of bone standing taller than she was and staring into her with empty, white eye sockets. As she stepped closer, Lady spoke to her, a voice that she could identify as a wolf's voice: feminine, high-pitched, the spoken equivalent of a howl.

She could not understand the words she heard. They were in a tongue she never learned, but she understood it because it was in her blood. She heard what she understood.

"See with your eyes."

She woke up and, as usual, reminded herself that she was Alayne, a bastard girl. She picked up a book to read. Not _Lives of Four Kings_. Not _The Conquest of Dorne_.


	9. Renly I

**Renly**

He used to only drink Arbor gold. He once drank a bottle from the same year that Daemon's rebellion ended at Redgrass Field. Unfortunately, somewhere between King's Landing and Storm's End, Baratheon funds ran dry and he was reduced to Dornish red.

Dornish, Arbor, gold, red, it got him drunk. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

All of a sudden, Storm's End seemed provincial. What was once the greatest castle in the realm was now crass and bleak. Compared to the fineries and luxuries of the Red Keep and the office of Master of Laws, the Lord Paramountcy of Storm's End seemed like nothing special. Against the Iron Throne, it was one of many seats. The Florents now had the Paramountcy in the Reach, the Boltons were the Wardens of the North. What was given, was all too easily taken away. Even the Iron Throne…

On their first day back in Storm's End, Renly took two skins of Arbor gold, and Ser Loras Tyrell, to his chambers for the whole day. He left his door wide open. The Lord of Storm's End told Loras not to feel the need to be quiet. Everyone knew already, so why bother hiding it? Maybe they should even get married. Deck out the Stormy Sept in Baratheon and Tyrell colors, say their vows to the lowest bidding Septon, and make Loras consort to the Throne of Thunder, where Argilac's arrogant ass once sat.

They simply chose to spend the night at least, Renly chose to spend his night with Loras. When the sun broke the darkness of the Narrow Sea, Renly slept. When it disappeared over the mountains, Renly woke. The first thing he did was drink half a skin of Dornish red, and descend to the kitchen where he demanded pheasant and lemon cakes.

The Lord of Storm's End took his supper to the bedroom but Maester Bier intercepted his route. The Maester began simply, "Lord Renly, there are matters to attend to, now. They have piled up since the Kingsmoot. There are appointments to fill…"

"Maester, who have I appointed castellan?"

The maester thought, "Ser Cortnay Penrose, my lord."

"Have him manage the affairs."

"Ser Cortnay has returned to Parchments, my lord."

"Then appoint someone else." Renly walked past the maester before he could answer and slammed the door shut. Loras was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing various parts of his body, "Look, love, I brought you breakfast." Renly put the food down on a table.

The look on Loras' face was disheartening. He looked like he was in more pain than after the Battle of Esgaroth, where he suffered a broken collar bone and an arrow to the forearm.

"What's wrong, Lorry?"

Loras shot him a look, "Are you drunk already?" he stood and walked over to his parts.

"Almost." Renly answered.

Loras began to dress.

"Don't put too many clothes on." Renly insisted, "You'll just have to take them off again."

"We just woke up. What happened to breakfast or lunch?"

"All gone. The sun's set."

"When do you plan on resuming court?"

Renly put a lemon cake in his mouth and immediately washed it down with wine, "I don't."

"What?" Loras didn't quite finish buttoning his shirt when he looked up in surprise, "I'm sorry, it sounded like you said you're _not _going to resume holding court."

"Right."

"Renly… we have a kingdom to rule."

"We do? Last I checked, the Iron Throne was in King's Landing and I lost the Kingsmoot." Renly pointed to the chair opposite him, "Will you sit and eat with me, already?"

Loras finally obeyed, sitting and eating his pheasant and lemon cakes, and sipping his wine as if it was his first taste. Renly didn't care. Loras was just as disappointed as he was; the loss was just hitting him differently. Lord Mace forbid Lady Margaery to go to Storm's End. He was most likely hard at work trying to nullify that mistake and find his only daughter a suitable match. But he'd otherwise abandoned Ser Loras, the young, gallant, Knight of the Flowers, to Renly's court in Storm's End. Renly Baratheon was more than happy for the company in his bed.

Renly continued to drink amidst candlelight and shouted for servants to bring up stores from the cellar. It was hard to try and count Loras' sips to his since there was such a discrepancy. Also, the Lord of the castle had a headstart on the Reachman. The last thing he remembered that evening was Loras' distinctive grumble, "You deserve better."

When Renly woke this time, he was undressed, sitting up, and submerged in hot bath water up to his chest. There were two pretty girls – both brunettes – that were scrubbing his body. The Lord of Storm's End failed to notice much of theirs because of how truly awful his head throbbed. He raised a hand to hold his pounding temple when a goblet appeared in front of him, "Here, m'lord."

Renly took it gladly and swallowed a huge gulp of its contents. Only half way through gulping down the liquid did he notice it wasn't clear wine, but haf pulp and pepper and was an opaque reddish orange. He spit out its contents, realizing it was a foul hangover cure the innkeeps called the "Bloody Maiden." He handed the cup to the pretty girl and growled, "Get this away from me."

"Apologies, m'lord," she said, "Maester Bier and Ser Loras were very clear. You must drink all of it."

He glared at the girl. Renly was used to playing Robert: smile, wink, touch as you pleased. But that was when he _had _to play Robert. It was a powerful thing to think he was days from popping out heirs. Margaery understood that better than he did. She even offered to help.

But he didn't have to pretend any longer. He was in love with another, and the whole Realm knew he wouldn't produce an heir any time soon. For the time being, his heir was Stannis, whose heir was Shireen. Not like the poor girl would ever live to produce heirs.

Renly let the girls wash the rest of him until he noticed the sun out the windows, "What time is it?"

"Still morning, m'lord."

"And who gave you orders to bathe me?"

The girls looked at each other, "Why, Ser Loras, m'lord," one of them finally answered.

Deciding he was clean enough, Renly stood up and dismissed the girls, "Get out." They did as they were told. One girl lingered at the door a half second longer than she should have, staring briefly at Renly's manhood, before she closed the door. It was truly a shame Renly wasn't born with Robert's preferences. He could make many a maiden happy from the Arbor to the Eyrie. Seven hells, even Ned Stark had five children and a bastard all his own.

Renly reached into his wardrobe and dressed. The room was impeccable. Loras hadn't missed a thing: the table was clean, the wine removed, the bed made, the wine gone, the desk had all memories of the Kingsmoot gone, the wine was away. He wore Baratheon colors and walked down the hall to find the nearest servant, "Wine," he said before continuing on to the great hall.

"My lord, what vintage?"

"Any." Renly reached the hall and entered behind the Thunderous Throne. On the Throne's right hand was Ser Loras dressed in his colorful Tyrell armor. To the left was Maester Bier in his black robe and chain of many metals.

Renly could see from here how half the Stormlands were around the Throne with dozens of Stormlanders waiting in line for a Lord's judgment. When he stormed into the room he looked at the Throne and found his young bastard nephew sitting in the chair, with his legs dangling well above the floor, "Hello, uncle."

"Morning, Edric," Renly turned to the maester, then to Loras, "Whose idea was this?"

Before the maester could say anything – and oh, did they love to say things – Loras said, "Mine. If you're not planning on holding court anyway, what's the problem?"

"The problem is it's my seat."

"Yes, a seat that you care less about than wine. So I had a half-Baratheon sit, at least."

"He's a… he can't inherit." Renly said, trying not to hurt the boy's feelings.

"Not yet." Loras said, "But do you really want Stannis for your heir? Edric is as good an heir as you'll get."

Renly glared at Ser Loras for making this decision but had to admit he was right, "Fine then. _I _will hold court. But we do it _my _way. Edric will be named my heir when we can draw up the proper documentation. Until then, Edric, stay and watch me rule." The servant boy came with a bottle of wine and handed it to Renly. He didn't bother to check the color, vintage, or other details, he simply uncorked it and drank. Renly directed Edric off the Thunderous Throne and moved to sit there himself. In between drinks, Lord Renly heard one after another Stormlander that could care less that the Lord of Storm's End was a homosexual. But just like the walls and gate of Storm's End itself, their problems were just so provincial: Lord Renly, my neighbor has allowed his animals to graze on my land, Lord Renly, this man has had his way with my daughter and I demand retribution, Lord Renly, the last storm has so damaged our crop we will not survive the winter. And on it went.

Finally, restrained by two guards in antlered helms (which Renly discovered, was a poor design in battle. Robert was incredibly luck to have survived the Trident) was Ser Galvan Milkwater. He was a lowborn knight who earned his title during the first Greyjoy Rebellion. As they always do, he fell from grace two years ago when he raped some lord's youngest daughter. Renly was a bit busy back then, still trying to be King and all, so Ser Galvan's prick was the least of Renly's concerns. No doubt he was waiting or a trial, but today…

"By my right of birth and blood, I demand a trial by combat."

Of course, Renly had to oblige, "Why, Ser Galvan?"

"The gods will prove me innocent, m'lord."

"Fine then," Maester Bier declared, "shall we schedule a time to bring this trial to a tourney ground?"

Whetever possessed Renly may not have been entirely human, but he shouted, "No." A houndish sense took over him and he said, "Right here. The trial will take place here. And now."

"My lord…" Maester Bier protested.

"Enough. Bring Ser Galvan a sword."

Renly watched a guard unlock Galvan's shackles and hand him his own sword. Loras stepped forward and said, "Let me be your champion, Your Grace…" He said _my lord,_ but Renly liked to think otherwise. Renly nodded and took a drink.

When Galvan saw the fabled Knight of the Flowers step down in front of the court to champion Renly, he stammered, "I will need a suit of armor then, and a shield!"

Ser Galvan looked like a decrepit piece of shit. His beard was a scraggly mess of loose hairs that hung like dirty lace curtains. He was in an old burlap sack, perhaps it was better to shit in that damp cell. Renly wondered if a trial by combat was in Ser Galvan's best interest considering he spent the last two years rotting in jail, while his opponent was off fighting a war.

"No need, have mine." Ser Loras took off his armor and threw it on the ground in front of Ser Galvan. He took off every piece until only his tunic remained. And then he took that off as well. Ser Loras was dressed only in his small clothes and a sword. Until then, Renly never wondered why the Warrior was always presented with his armor. Surely there must have been a time without armor, but how could there have been a time without warriors? Standing in the middle of the hall with all the lords and ladies of Storm's End watching, Ser Loras was dressed in nothing but the scrap of cloth to cover his nether regions and carried only his hand-and-a-half sword with a golden rose pommel. This must be what gods truly looked like…

Ser Galvan took his time trying to make Loras' ill fitting armor cling to his malnourished frame. He picked up the shield gingerly, as if he'd never held one before. Renly looked at the two warriors and knew immediately it was going to be a bloodbath. He drank from the wineskin in preparation.

Ser Galvan stood there with a sword and shield in hand. It was a surreal image, Renly thought: to see a man dressed in Renly's armor, carrying a triple-rose shield stand there shakily and hold his own (or attempt to) against an avatar of the Warrior.

The two seemed locked in a perpetual stare before Maester Bier leaned into Renly's ear and said, "My lord, should we have Septon Clifford ask the Warrior's blessing first?"

Renly wanted to say the Warrior was already there in Storm's End, and he simply never lost, "Very well. Septon Clifford, please ask the Warrior to watch over this Trial?"

Septon Clifford was a young man. He was used to attending sellswords and whores at the Stormy Sept and knew the taverns all too well. But he was Renly's Septon an could apparently still bless official court events.

"Certainly, Lord Renly." Septon Clifford stepped forward and raised his arms halfway to the heavens and halfway to the fighters in front of him, "Oh, Holy Warrior, only your sword can bring justice to us earthly mortals. Shine your…"

Renly drank. Was this what Robert felt like when he sat the Iron Throne? There weren't too many thrones higher than Aegon's Iron one, so their predicaments weren't exactly alike. Renly drank because he should be sitting on an Iron Throne. Robert drank because… well he wasn't particularly certain why.

"Now," Renly said, putting the skin down and standing up from the Thunderous Throne, "Fight!"

Like the Fury Baratheons were so well known for, Loras charged forward and brought his sword down like a hammer on the very same armor he wore only months ago at Esgaroth.

Ser Galvan stumbled back, putting up his shield – well, Loras' shield – and trying to orient himself in time to handle the Knight of Flowers' inevitable next attack. Without losing a step, Loras advanced and knocked the triple rose shield to the side. As Loras swung to take off Ser Galvan's arm, the swords connected and forced away Ser Loras' blade.

Ser Galvan was skilled. He certainly earned that knighthood for whatever it was he did during the Greyjoy Rebellion, but there was simply no way for the out of practice, malnourished Galvan to beat the finely tuned fighting machine that was Loras Tyrell.

As if to prove that very thought, Ser Loras drove his sword through to Ser Galvan's shoulder, drawing blood in a bright red spray that reminded Renly of the Lannister banners at Esgaroth and King's Landing. Ser Galvan shouted through the pain and stumbled back to collect his bearings. But Ser Loras wouldn't give him any reprieve. He lunged forward repeatedly, finally bringing the washed up knight to his knees holding the shield up to block his face.

More blood sprayed as Loras' sword repainted the court at Storm's End. Ser Galvan, despite his attempt at going to his grave with honor, screamed until Loras brought his sword down one last time and cut the high-pitched cry of desperation with a sudden burst of crimson ink forever altering the priceless Pentoshi tapestries hung on the north wall.

And just as quickly as it began, it ended. Ser Galvan was lying in pieces with the expensive rainbow colored armor slowly turning a singular shade of red. Ser Loras, wearing barely anything but his smallclothes, his Highgarden-forged blade, and Ser Galvan's blood, stood facing Renly with that ridiculous smirk on his face. It was only then that Renly realized he was holding his breath. The Warrior gave his sword to the matter. He, in consultation with the Father and his scales, delivered his strength to the Knight of Flowers and declared Ser Galvan guilty.

Renly retrieved the skin and handed it to Ser Loras as he walked past, "Well done, Ser." He said. Loras nodded his head and smiled.

"Thank you, my Lord."

It took a quarter hour for the court to get back to normal. Ser Galvan's body was gone, but the squires didn't clean up the better half of the blood he left behind. Two smallfolk came to stand before Renly and ask him to resolve a territorial dispute over the border between their farms. Gerrid's sheep were grazing on Alton's land. When Alton addressed the issue three months ago, Gerrid agreed and tried to shepherd his sheep onto his own pasture. Gradually, Gerrid's sheep returned and Alton addressed it once more. This time, Gerrid refused, saying if his sheep were there, then that must be his land. The local tavern council (what savages these smallfolk were) failed to resolve the issue and so they brought it to their liege lord.

In the Crownlands and the West, there was a recent trend to wall in sheep herds with stonewalls that had sheep-proof steps. Renly's initial thought was to use this as an opportunity to commission a crew of builders, to go from Tarth to Nightsong building walls to keep bullshit like this out of his court.

But the crimson conquest of Loras' many-colored suit of armor tantalized Renly Baratheon. He tried to think about hills and stones and sheep and farms and _peace_, but he couldn't get Ser Loras and the glorious image of the Warrior Reborn out of his mind.

"My Lord?" Maester Bier said, "What's your judgment in this matter?"

Renly smiled, "Which of you wants the grazing land more?"

"It's _my _land. Those are _his _sheep." Alton said.

"My land, _and _my sheep." Gerrid said.

"Great. Get these men some swords. Whoever wants it more will get it. Oh, and someone get me another skin of wine. Arbor gold."


	10. Jon I

**Jon**

I _should make you my heir." The King said two months ago._

_Jon was overwhelmed and taken aback, Your Grace, I am a man of the Nights Watch." _

_"Don't call me that," Robb said. _

_"Sorry, Robb, I'm a man of the Night's Watch. Sworn to defend the Wall from its enemies." _

_"And at the moment, I'm the King in the North," Robb snorted, and touched the sword at his side, "Sansa and Arya are either missing or dead. Bran and Rickon are dead." Jon thought of Theon Greyjoy. He knew Robb killed him, there was no way he'd linger at Castle Black unless the enemies of their House were dead, "If I die, who inherits the North?" _

_Jon thought about it. The last he remembered about Stark succession was simply that he was out of it. He knew his brother Robb would inherit Winterfell, Bran after him, then Rickon, Sansa, and Arya. After that…_

_"Succession passes to the Vale of Arryn. Lord Yohn Royce is the head of Runestone, and my successor unless there is a notice in a book I missed. Otherwise Winterfell and the North, will pass to the Vale. The Bronze Yohn is a good and honorable man, the blood of the First Men, and a friend to the Watch. But he's not a Stark." _

_"Neither am I." Jon replied. _

_"You would be. If Roslin does not give me a child, then you will be Lord of Winterfell." Robb handed Jon the letter, "and King in the North." _

Not a day went by that Jon did not think about that letter. He prayed to the Old Gods that he would never have to use it. Yohn Royce would make a fine King in the North, finer than Jon ever would. But the presence of Northern troops pushed Sam's conspiracy into place and Jon was all of a sudden forced to learn very fast how to rule.

He woke up every morning as Lord Commander, and immediately checked the rookery for news of his brother. He did not hope to become King any more than he wanted to become Lord Commander. But _if_. _If _a raven came with its dark words and said that Robb was dead or dying, would Jon pull out that letter and march to Winterfell? Or would he let the Bronze Yohn take his seat, as Lord and King?

Several weeks into Jon's tenure at Castle Black, repairs were still being made when a raven announced the results of the Kingsmoot: not Robb. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He would not have to sit the Iron Throne, or the Winter Chair. And his Frey wife was obviously fertile. She was the seed of Lord Walder. Jon hoped to meet her. He wished Robb could have met Ygritte. He had the wolfsblood, and she was kissed by fire. They would have made fast friends.

Jon always met first with Sam, Maester Aemon, and Bowen Marsh. They were – for now – his trusted advisors until he could confirm and fill new positions at Castle Black. Helman Tallhart, General of the Northern Army, stood some mornings for all of Robb's forces on the Wall. He was glad to be working with a Tallhart, and not the Glovers, who all converted to Stannis' fire god.

"What's first?" Jon asked.

Sam read off a list, "Repairs."

"How are we doing?"

Bowen Marsh spoke up, "We've buried or burned all of the dead. Beyond th Wall were actually some wildling women that helped with that. Said it wasn't right to leave 'em like that. Now that that giant isn't stuck in the tunnel, we can move freely again, though the gates will require some work."

"I want the gates fixed by nightfall," Jon ordered, "We can't defend a wall with a gaping hole in it." He took a sip of mulled wine, "Next."

"Tormund Giantsbane." Sam said the name like he was reading off a menu. The Free Folk was all out of Mance Rayder, would you like to try the Tormund Giantsbane? But the name hung in the air and inspired a modicum of fear. They'd captured so many Free Folk: Rattleshirt, Sigorn the Magnar of Thenn, Val, Mance Rayder and his infant son. But Tormund Giantsbane represented dangerous, unfinished work.

They may have defeated thousands of wildlings in the field, but there were thousands more out there. Based on Sam's and the others' reports, there was a different enemy out there, on that had a decidedly inhuman face and who would gladly welcome thousands of wildlings into their mindless control.

"Tormund will have to be dealt with." Jon said.

"We'll fix the gates and lock them," Marsh said, "The wildlings won't come through after that. Then we'll double our patrols along the Wall, make sure they don't come over it as before."

Jon knew what Marsh meant, _as you and the Thenns did_ _before_. His election was a disappointment to many, "We'll need to better defend the Wall, yes, but we'll also need to reach out to Tormund."

"Reach out to the wildlings?" Marsh said, "Last time…"

"Lord Commander Mormont's ranging accomplished most of its objectives. It found Mance Rayder and the missing Free Folk. Yet the cost was regrettable. Any further rangings will have to be better thought out."

"Why bother with rangings at all?" Marsh asked defiantly.

"Because the enemy is still out there. And the last thing we need is to fight a thousand more wights than they already have. Tormund is a great warrior. No one, especially a black brother, can dispute that. If we can ally with him against the real enemy, we'll be that much stronger."

"So you intend to lose half our rangers on the possibility of an alliance with a wildling?"

"No. But I was hoping for some other ideas," Jon was getting angry. As foolish as Bowen Marsh was, Jon knew his opinion was prevalent – if not the majority – among his brothers, "I'll continue to think on Tormund Giantsbane. For now, Marsh, Sam, I'd like to speak to Maester Aemon alone."

Bowen Marsh left with a disgruntled look in his eyes. Jon wasn't sure why. They were doing just what he wanted: fixing the Wall and leaving Tormund well enough alone. Sam left and waited just outside the door to help Maester Aemon to the rookery after they were done.

"Maester, do you have any thoughts about Tormund Giantsbane?"

"Well, Lord Snow, if he's as dangerous as you say and Bowen Marsh thinks, he would be a valuable ally."

"How do you think we might reach out to him?"

"A ranging is too difficult. But it's early enough in autumn that we might send rangers with ships from Eastwatch and make a shorter journey. Provided he's closer to the sea than the Wall."

"And if he's not?"

"You know the wildlings better than I, Lord Snow. I believe Bowen Marsh is right, however. Our numbers are too few to continue ordinary operations, never mind whacking through the Haunted Forest to find a wildling King."

"He's not a King yet. We need to make sure that doesn't happen."

"If your goal is to ally with the wildlings, then perhaps begin with the ones we have captive. Earn their trust, and then maybe send one of them to parley with Tormund. They will speak a common language and custom better than any black brother could."

Jon thought about what the Maester said before thanking him and moving on to the next item of business, "Research on the Others?"

"Sam has so far only been able to locate a few scant texts on any stories or histories that may prove useful to combating them. Thankfully, we already know they are susceptible to dragonglass, and there are some scattered indications that Valyrian Steel works against them."

_At least I'll be well protected_, Jon thought with Longclaw slung around his back, "I don't think we'll be able to convince the Lords of Westeros to hand over their ancestral weapons to the Watch, however. So I think dragonglass is our best bet."

"Shall I send a raven to Dragonstone?"

"What for?"

"Dragonstone is not just a name, Lord Snow. It is the largest cache of dragonglass in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stannis knows what troubles we face, he will not begrudge us necessary weaponry that is otherwise useless to him."

"No, but he will likely demand a price."

"The Watch has little but our castles, or the Gift. Lord Stannis will soon be unlanded, to make way for King Petyr's chosen heir. It may become not just wise, but necessary to grant land to Lord Stannis if he will grant us dragonglass while he is still the High Lord of Dragonstone."

"'Lord of the Gift' isn't an inspiring name," Jon said, "Not compared to _High Lord _of _Dragonstone_."

"No it isn't. But Queenscrown is a castle. And his is a banner men will follow. Stannis Baratheon is a hard man, just the sort of man wildlings would follow, if your descriptions of them are correct."

"You're proposing we sell Stannis Baratheon the Gift in exchange for dragonglass. And when Stannis arrives to restore Queenscrown, that we grant him wildling subjects as well?"

"Why not? It takes the pressure of so many wildling prisoners away from us, and onto Stannis' rule."

Maester Aemon was wise beyond anything Jon could fathom. He did not want to see him go, "Then send a raven to Lord Stannis. How are our men getting along with Helman Tallhart's?"

"Lord Tallhart jests that he's losing all of his men to us, but he is a friend no less."

"Are we gaining men?"

"Two or three of the Northmen join per week. To hear the brothers talk of the Watch is inspiring. They make friends among the Northmen and soon enough, they convince them to join their honorable service. The shield hall may be quite colorful again before Lord Tallhart takes his men home."

"That is inspiring," Jon had to remember that he now had over ten thousand men to do with as he pleased, at least until Robb said their duty was done, "But there is an issue I think we need to discuss."

Maester Aemon, from behind tired white eyes, laughed, "You can say it just fine, Jon Snow, I am old. And soon I will turn from old to dead."

"Too soon. You are leaving a hole that is not easily filled."

"Yet I must. You and I both know that Samwell Tarly has more potential than I ever showed."

"I _don't _know that." Jon sighed, "I did not know you when you were Sam's age."

That made the old man laugh with glee, "Very well, Lord Snow. You must take my word for it. Sam is a brilliant boy. No good with a sword, but as you said, the Watch needs all kinds of brothers. Oldtown will suit him well."

Sam always did like old things, and he liked books. Sam would probably fall in love with the Citadel and all of its old books. The only problem Jon foresaw was trying to get Sam back from the south. "How do you suppose this would happen?"

"We'll take the Kingsroad to Winterfell. If there are any books about the Others still left, we'll find them. After that, we'll follow the White Knife to White Harbor and take a ship to Oldtown. If need be, we could simply take one to King's Landing and follow the Roseroad to Oldtown."

"I'll assemble you a protection detail. Until I can gather the necessary logistics, tell only Sam."

"Of course, Lord Snow." Jon helped Maester Aemon out of the seat and out of his chambers where Sam was waiting. Outside, there was a woman standing next to Sam. She had the hardened features of the Free Folk, and long, blonde, braided hair. She was accompanied by a black brother and a Northman farther back. Jon motioned for her to walk into his solar and told the guards he could handle her if need be.

"You never told us you were King Crow." Val said after Jon shut the door, "Mance would have made friends with you if he knew that were the case."

Jon pulled out a chair for Mance's good-sister, "I wasn't made Lord Commander until after Jeor Mormont's death. And after Mance was defeated at the Wall."

"So why didn't Jeor Mormont's son succeed him? Isn't that the way you southerners do things?"

"The Watch isn't a kingdom. We elect out Lord Commander in a vote…" she stared back at him and held back an explosive laughter, "You know, you're a lot dumber than you look."

"It's not so much fun explaining the same thing over and over again, is it?"

"No," Jon allowed himself to smile, "But I can't imagine I've explained the Lord Commandership half as many times as you've had to explain being a 'wildling princess.'"

"One time I went along with it. And this boy. He had a… a gray fist on his shirt."

"House Glover."

"Yes, he bowed and made to kiss my hand!"

"Keep playing along. You might become an actual Queen when some King marries you to 'ensure rule over the wildlings.'" What a title that would make: Fool, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men, and the Wildlings.

"Any of your men comes near me with boyish intentions, will not leave a boy."

"I fully support you in this, Val." But he needed to talk to her about something else, "I was hoping you might be able to help us, however."

Val straightened in her chair and narrowed her eyes, "What kind of help?"

"The Night's Watch is the shield that guards the Realms of Men. I once thought that was just a poetic phrase. To me, the 'Realms of Men' were the Seven Kingdoms and we guarded it against the wildlings. Everything else was just stories. But after the battle, after meeting with Mance and learning from the Free Folk, I learned that there's no difference in biology on either side of the Wall. Man is man. And that makes the Free Folk part of the Realm of Men. So the Watch is ultimately made for another purpose. If not to fight _wildlings_, then who or what? And my brothers discovered that answer at the Fist: the very same enemy Mance was running from."

"The white walkers." Val whispered their name like a curse.

"This goes beyond a common enemy. This is what the Watch was made for, what our purpose was. And somewhere along the way, we forgot our brothers and sisters on the other side. But now we know."

"Say what you want to say, King Crow." She mocked.

Jon sighed. The words wouldn't come. Not today, "If the Free Folk want to be safe on this side of the Wall, I will welcome them. _But _they must maintain the peace, and help defend the Wall."

"We tried coming peacefully. I can't say Tormund Giantsbane will listen to your offer and rejoice."

"Yes, but this time, your _peaceful _coming is on our terms. I regret that last time, I was not in control of the situation."

"The Free Folk will never kneel. You will never make them." Val insisted.

"I'm not asking them to," Jon responded, "As long as the Free Folk stay in the Gift," he pointed to the map and showed her the exact border, "I will not ask them to kneel. Everything north of that line is Night's Watch territory, the Realm has no say. If the Free Folk raid or settle farther south, I cannot help them." Jon pointed to the mountains just north of the Wolfswood, "Here are what we call the 'Mountain Clans.' They have no great castles, no mighty cities. They live in, at most, wooden forts, much of their culture is First Men _before _the influence of the Andals."

"So what are you saying? I should move the Free Folk there and they will welcome us?"

"Not at all. But _you _go there. Take Sigorn, and any Free Folk you might think have influence over others. Build a new life in the Gift, specifically, a new culture. You will see that living south of the Wall under our terms does not mean kneeling, nor automatically giving up your ways."

Val was silent for a long while before she said, "All right. How will I get there?"

"I'll make an escort. If you go alone, they'll think you're there to raid them."

"Escort? Not guards?"

"Absolutely not. You'll be treated as honored guests in the Mountains. Trust me on that."

"If you say so, King Crow. I'll play your game." Val made to leave, but stopped at the door, "I just have one question:" she turned her head ever so slightly in Jon's direction, "Did _you _kill Jarl?"

Her lover was with Jon, Ygritte, and the Thenns when they first vaulted over the Wall at Greyguard, "No," Jon answered honestly, "He was killed by the Wall."

"That's what I heard." Val opened the door to leave. As it swung open, Jon heard a series of trumpet blasts. They weren't horns like at the top of the Wall. It didn't follow the standard one-two (or dreaded three) pattern of the Watch. It was more of a _royal _trumpet.

Jon joined Val at the doorway and looked down into the yard. All manner of knight bearing the yellow-and-red sigil of the burning Baratheon stag were entering the yard at Castle Black. At the very front was a man in battered iron-gray armor with a coal-black beard and a long sword gleaming at his side. At least five thousand men stood behind him as he shouted, "Lord Commander Jon Snow. I am Stannis Baratheon," _well_, Jon thought, _I guess we can save a raven._ But what he heard next was even more shocking than Stannis' sudden appearance, "I've come to take the black."


	11. The Former Queen

**The Former Queen**

Every morning started with tears. She woke up and stood in the mirror, crying over her lost blonde curls. _If I am a lioness, _she asked herself, _then why do I look like I am having my blood from my ears? _The gold hair of the Lannister line was far too recognizable. But she could not do brown or black. She would not stoop so low as to look like a Stark or a Baratheon.

She was still insanely beautiful. She had to be, otherwise this ruse would never work. Had Cersei been born with red hair rather than blonde, she might have grown to even love it as much as this world's Cersei loved her golden locks. The red hair was temporary, only temporary, as were her living arrangements.

Originally, Tyrion snuck her out of the Red Keep via the passages underneath the castle. The passage took her all the way to a brothel on the opposite side of Rhaenys' Hill. Upon exiting the tunnels, she was met by two Summer Islanders with ample bosoms, long, black, bedroom hair, and revealing clothes expectant of prostitutes. The first thing Chataya said was, "She needs to change her hair."

Cersei refused, "No."

"You cannot leave the city looking like Queen Cersei. She is supposed to be dead."

"I'm not leaving." Cersei responded, looking at the younger whore, the one she took prisoner when the Imp took Tommen into his custody.

"You cannot stay here," Tyrion said, "King's Landing is not safe."

"I will not leave without my son. My _only _son." The Summer whores and Tyrion glanced at each other. Cersei Lannister was well known in the city. She lived here longer than she lived at the Rock. But as much as she hated it, the whores were right. If she was to leave the city in the light of day with Tyrion's caravan, she should change her hair, even moreso now that she was devoted to staying in the City.

"She stays here, then." Alayaya said, "and we change her hair." As much as Cersei wanted to use a brothel that Tyrion didn't have connections to, she realized using one of her brother's whorehouses was preferable to using one of Littlefinger's, especially now that Alayaya knew she was alive, in the city, and not her biggest fan. Alayaya left and returned with brown hair dye. Chataya was kinder, "Get red."

After it was done – the whole experience reminded her of Robert climbing on top of her reeking of strongwine – Chataya smiled in a way that made her kindness melt into cruelty, "There. Now people will remark about how similar you look to the old Queen as opposed to being her. They may even ask for you for that reason."

Tyrion was gone by then. Would he have argued in her favor? He snuck her out of the Red Keep, kept her away from the wolves and stags, "I'm not a whore." Cersei protested with all the vile she could send Chataya's way.

"No?" Chataya asked, "Then why did your father sell you to King Robert?"

Cersei couldn't argue. She wondered the same thing for years. She spent her days in the brothel eating, sleeping, and servicing clients in the same room. She had a nice room. No servants, but it had a decent view of the Dragonpit, and didn't lack for finer foods spiced with exotic flavors like saffron and cinnamon. Nor was there a lack for Arbor gold or that unnaturally strong drink the Summer Islanders called "rum."

Good thing. Without three or four drinks, there was no way Cersei could have serviced half of these men. Never once counting herself among their ranks (whores are voluntary, slaves do it against their will), Cersei all of a sudden found brand new respect for prostitutes.

In her downtime, she met a girl named Ros. She was a redheaded Northerner with a lion-headed necklace. Cersei wondered which Lannister she serviced. But a few shared meals with Ros revealed that her mother was also a Wintertown whore. She was raised in the brothel and knew so many prostitutes who were kind, beautiful, and affectionate that Ros felt like she had a dozen mothers (and one effeminate father). Raised in the brothel, there was nothing else for Ros to learn. She became familiar with Myrish lace and leather thongs, but only in relation to smallclothes. The arts of lovemaking became second nature to the poor girl. At the same age that Cersei was learning how to curtsy and was introduced to the Lords of Westeros, becoming familiar with the web of family connections from the Arbor to the Wall, Ros was learning the Seven Sighs of Lys.

Cersei had to admit that she didn't know them, only hearing of their existence in passing. When her first clients came, Cersei opened her legs, finding that men just wanted to fuck and run. Cersei got her gold and the meal, the bed, and the relative freedom. But she didn't have Tommen. And she was no closer to obtaining him either.

Gradually, she came to know Ros better. Cersei adopted the name Jonquil and made up a story of how she was kidnapped as a little girl and sold as a slave in Pentos. She worked as a serving girl until she was able to escape to Westeros, but didn't know the first thing about Westerosi ways, so she came to work at the brothel. Ros listened with a sympathetic ear, but as their conversations advanced, it was clear she was not only earning more money than her friend Jonquil, but was also gathering more knowledge. Ros could tell Cersei who each of the Keepers of the Keys were. She knew half the men that cast their vote for King Littlefinger, she also knew the lesser half of the Kingsguard. The list went on, but it was clear that they were regulars. The only man Cersei had seen more than once was Jalabar Xho who only saw her thrice because he "liked to imagine your face is Queen Cersei's. The bitch who told Robert to say no to my return."

Cersei kept quiet long enough to suck him off which became preferable because he stopped speaking. Xho was hardly of any use, the minute details he gave her about court life were seldom useful to obtaining information on Tommen. It was hard to ask him questions that would be odd for a prostitute and a slave to ask. Cersei realized that the only way for her to get information on what was going on in the deeper sections of the court was to get regulars from that secret zone. Ones who would talk to her for long periods of time again and again.

To do that, she needed regulars. To get regulars, she needed to be a better lover. And that's when she rather hesitantly asked Ros to teach her the Seven Sighs.

One by one, Cersei Lannister discovered seven categories of details she never knew about lovemaking. Using both her fingers, tongue, and occasionally a balsa wood olisbos, Ros taught Jonquil to give pleasure in ways she never considered, she showed the redheaded newcomer how to dominate and later submit, to partners that might not otherwise know the difference. Better than that, Ros taught her how to make men orgasm in ways that made them return to her bed.

Cersei orgasmed more times than she should have during her lessons. She'd never been with another woman before. Robert was the only man who'd entered her aside from those few nights with Lancel and Jaime before that. Lancel was nothing but a cock. And Jaime… that was love. It's easy to come with love behind it.

When she'd learned all seven Sighs, she received her first client, a courtier originally from the Reach. His accent gave it away, but the most information he could give Cersei prior to the lovemaking was the name of his boss: the new Master of Coin.

He began to tell Cersei about his job sorting through the accounting books, and despite her sudden interest in tax farming, Cersei slowly undid his trousers, and took him in her mouth. He started brething heavily as Cersei could hear Ros' words in her head:

_Take as much of his member as you can into your mouth. Again, as the giver of this pleasure, feel free to set your own limits here. Press with your lips, use your tongue, and suck wherever you like. Tongue pressure _alone_ is usually sufficient to bring a man to orgasm…_

He was satisfied enough to return and tell Cersei a few more names. As clients came and returned, Cersei learned tiny bits of information that she wrote down in a leather-bound notebook. Every piece of information (including from that fool, Jalabar Xho) started to come together to form a mosaic of the inside happenings of the Red Keep. That first man she tried her sigh on seemed to have spread her sexual prowess around the Red Keep.

When a man (occasionally a woman) stepped into the whore house, Chataya offered them a glass of wine before asking what they were looking for. Sometimes they simply expressed a wish to get off, sometimes they came in with a preference (give me a girl with great big tits I can bury my face in, give me a blonde… no a Lyseni, is there a virgin girl I can fuck?) and sometimes they had a favorite whore they liked. As time went on, they started to ask more and more for the redhead named Jonquil.

Before long, _he _started to come see her almost every other day. He'd bring her a gift, a bottle of the Red Keep's own vintage (which she had to remember that she was alien to the taste), a basket of lemon cakes, and once, a golden penchant.

Cersei Lannister almost fooled herself into thinking she was in love. It was hard to devote oneself to the Seven Sighs without feeling a constant stream of good emotions that replicated a lover's connection. He strut into her room time and again. Cersei only met him in passing prior to the war. He had a notable reputation with lovers, even a rumor that he was to marry Arianne Martell. Even as he pleasured her with his tongue, Cersei allowed herself only the momentary fantasy. He was once an enemy, still was. And he had no idea she was a dead woman, the Queen he helped depose.

"Do I take your shudders for approval, lovely Jonquil?"

She was Jonquil, not the former queen, she was Jonquil, the naked maiden in love, "Yes, my Florian," she said. Ser Edmure Tully was much better looking than his mythic counterpart. His auburn hair was different from Jaime's gold, closer to her new color. But he was certainly well equipped for the job, and he seemed to know what he was doing.


	12. Arianne I

**Arianne**

Arianne couldn't sleep since Tyene found her in the Prince's Pass with half the Dornish delegation that cast their vote at the Kingsmoot. It was a depressing departure. A delegation of Stormlords, Reachlords, and Dornishmen. The Dornish left before the Reachlords, but the night they stayed at Bitterbridge suddenly saw the Reachlords appear at the same inn.

Arianne, sitting in the corner of the room was now the unofficial head of House Martell abroad. When Mace Tyrell entered with his son Garlan on one side and his mother the Queen of Thorns on the other, the inn became deathly silent. The Dornishmen all tensed and turned to the Reachlords. Young Garin the Orphan turned to Arianne and whispered his concern, "Princess?"

She looked across the room and into Mace Tyrell's eyes. His were not the eyes of a man looking for a fight. He was defeated. Ser Garlan was less of a defeated man, but there was a calm collection of energy beneath those meadow eyes. Arianne shot a look at the innkeeper, "A round of Arbor gold on us."

"We don't need Dornish charity." Mace Tyrell said.

"No," the Queen of Thorns responded, "but we'll take it. Lord Oaf, return the courtesy. Now."

His grudge against Dorne melted away, "Barkeep. A round of Dornish red, on us." A cheer went up from Dornishmen and Reachmen alike as the wine began to pour like the Blackwater. Lady Olenna and Lord Mace sat with Arianne and Garin and asked how they were being treated in the Reach.

Arianne responded, "The Reachlords are as kind as any other so long as we pay our way. And rightfully so. We've tried to not overstay our welcome."

"We just want to get home." Garin said.

"We won't impede your journey," Lord Tyrell said, "our desires are the same."

_Indeed_, thought Arianne, the difference being the Martells are still the Princes of Dorne. The Tyrells were nothing but the High Lords of Highgarden. A powerful position with a great castle, but the Rowans, the Fossoways, the Hightowers, the Tarlys, the Redwynes, were all bannermen to the Florents of Brightwater Keep now.

As the night went on, Arianne was only disappointed that the friendly attitude and the alliance forged by wine hadn't occurred when the Tyrells were in a position of power. Ser Garlan got into a drinking contest with two of the Salt Shore knights. Lord Mace left to share a few words with Lady Laura Blackmont. And Garin saw a game of cyvasse he felt the need to participate in.

It left Arianne alone, at the inn in Bitterbridge, with the Queen of Thorns. Lady Olenna ordered a plate of cheese and a few apples – New Barrel variety. When they arrived, she sliced them with the block of cheddar and said, "Have you ever had New barrel apples, Princess?"

Arianne shook her head, "No, my lady."

"I consider it the silver lining to our predicament in Highgarden. The Fossoways will not feel the need to send us bushels of their bitterest apples. Here, have some with this dull cheddar. It's better for a woman in your condition than wine."

Arianne felt her blood freeze, "My condition?"

The Queen of Thorns seemed exasperated, "I have been around enough women and have had enough of my own children to recognize a woman trying to hide what you're hiding."

Involuntarily, Arianne's hand moved toward her belly. She stopped it at the edge of the table but the damage was done. She had confirmed Olenna's suspicions, "Have some cheese, dear. Bastard or no, you won't want it said the Princess of Dorne is tainted with a monstrous womb…" Arianne put the wine down and began to eat as she was told.

"You needn't appear so frightened in front of me."

"I'm not," Arianne snapped.

She smiled in a way that frightened Arianne like never before, "If you're not frightened of _me_, then what are you frightened of? The father of your Sandy brood? Or is it your own father? I can't imagine Prince Doran would appreciate his heiress mothering the offspring of… who might it have been? Not a Dornishman. This happened in the rats nest of a capital. You had access to hundreds of new cocks that don't have the time to go to Sunspear. So tell me, is the father powerful? Are you carrying a child with a claim to a high castle? Or is it a lowborn man? A servant of the Red Keep. The Dornish don't have a reputation for being discerning with their lovers."

Arianne felt the need to defend her culture, but Olenna Tyrell had the right of it. Her bastard cousin Obara was whelped by an Oldtown prostitute, Obara's half-sister Nymeria on a Volantene noblewoman, and their half-sister Tyene on a septa. Oberyn Martell was only significant for the attention he paid his daughters, not for the method of their parentage.

She did not feel so different from her uncle. Her retinue of lovers included a noble bastard, a knight of the Kingsguard, and (at the time) a King. If Robb Stark acknowledged the child's ancestry, would a Snow be raised amongst the Dornish Sands? Or would he honor the promise he made Arianne?

Would he marry her and bring the Princess of Dorne to Winterfell?

"I would prefer to see if he acknowledges my child before I bring it to him."

The Queen of Thorns smiled and brought the wine to her lips. She let the words linger before she swirled the drink and began, "Do you know what they call me?"

Everyone knew. They also knew you weren't supposed to say it in front of her, "Yes," was all Arianne chose to say to her.

"The Queen of Thorns," she said, setting it on the table and looking off into the ages she's seen, "Better yet, they _whisper _my name. As if saying it too loud brings about my wrath. Good. Let them whisper my name in the dark like a curse. What do they call my son? The _Lord _of Highgarden? Nothing. He failed to capture Storm's End during the first Baratheon War, stayed out entirely for the Greyjoy one, and let my grandsons and the Stormlords fight the second Baratheon War. And then what? He was taken for a fool in Baelish's Kingsmoot. Rightfully so. All men are fools, Arianne Martell, but the ones in motley are more fun than the ones in crowns. You Dornish have the right of it: giving women the same succession rights as the fools. You'll be a powerful Lady whether you like it or not. But what will they call you? And will they whisper it in the dark?"

The next day the Reachlords and Dornishmen departed from Bitterbridge to separate destinations. The Tyrells would continue down the Roseroad along the colorful and fertile Valley of the Mander. Arianne's delegation headed directly south to the increasingly earthy tones of the Dornish Marches. The Marches, ruled by the defensive House Caron, were the only way to get from King's Landing to the Prince's Pass. The Pass was the preferable route through the Red Mountains if one didn't want to wade through hundreds of miles of Stormlands to get to the more treacherous Boneway.

Ever since Daeron II extended the King's Peace to Dorne, the Marches have been quiet. Princesses of Dorne could move to and from the Marches with merely suspicious glances as opposed to sharpened lances.

Arianne and her three hundred Dornishmen moved quickly through the Marches and into the Red Mountains of their country. There, they were able to stop at the castle of Tattershall, a possession of House Fowler. To Arianne's surprise, there was a collection of spears to greet their diplomatic failure. The spears were unexpected. They all expressed their sorrow at Arianne's uncle, but seeing Tyene, in her black mourning dress and carrying a small _Seven-Pointed Star_, was a pleasant surprise.

Arianne gingerly dismounted her steed and took Tyene's arm, "Good to see you, cousin."

Tyene didn't return the sentiment, "Tell me everything."

And so she did.

They paid their token respects to the Fowlers at the castle, accepted their bread and salt, and then returned to their chambers. Arianne told Tyene everything without leaving out a single detail. It was hard to separate her affair with Robb Stark from the Red Viper's death. But Arianne was never able to hold back anything from Tyene. Ever since they were girls living in the Water Gardens, they slept in the same bad, swapped their first secrets, and had their first sexual experiences together. When the bastard of Godsgrace took Arianne's maidenhead, Tyene was the third to know. When Daeron Sand took Tyene's as well, Arianne's only request was to have them both.

In many respects, Arianne felt more like Tyene's twin than her cousin. Which is why recounting Oberyn Martell's death was as painful as watching it, except this time she felt the added pain of watching a single tear roll down Tyene's cheek when she described Lady Forlorn slicing through Prince Oberyn's throat.

When she got to telling her about the night Robb Stark stayed in her bed, she felt guilty. Not because of the sex, nor of who it was with, they were well past the embarrassment. But because it happened so soon after the duel.

After the promise Robb Stark made her, Arianne had to back track and tell Tyene of the prophecy the old Norvoshi woman gave her. She recalled Ser Arys' death, sharing one final moment with Robb Stark, and the spontaneous meeting with the Queen of Thorns.

Tyene stood and walked over to one of her chests. She opened it and removed a leather bag. Where Obara knew her spear and Nymeria her bow, Tyene knew poisons. She removed a small vial with a cloudy blue liquid in it. Tyene removed the cork and handed it to Arianne, "I would mix it with something but you've already wasted a month."

Arianne took it slowly before immediately handing it back, "I don't want it."

Tyene was taken aback, "Arianne, it's moon tea."

"I know what it is."

"Then why?"

Arianne wasn't sure how to answer. Should she repeat herself and say, _he promised to marry me, I love him_? Arianne settled for, "No."

:You're going to give birth to a bastard?"

"I will hardly be the first."

You are the heiress to Dorne."

"So was your father."

Tyene took the moon tea with one hand and smacked Arianne with the other, "What's wrong with you?" a hand went up to pretect her face from a second blow, "My father is dead. He died for _your _plan. To crown Myrcella. Obara and Nym are on fire and wanted to see you join us. Instead you return with Prince Oberyn's bones and a bastard in your belly. Have you turned into a frightened mother already?"

"Enough!" Arianne shot to her feet, "Have you heard nothing I just said?"

"I heard you say you will whelp this wolf."

"And as you know, my father means to disinherit me entirely. I tried to reclaim my inheritence by crowning a monarch of my own. Yes, Prince Oberyn died for that. I never wanted him to. And now, maybe I realized that there is more to life than my inheritance. Maybe I realized I don't want to see my family _die _before my eyes?"

They stood like that for a long time, tears in their eyes, ready to explode once more. Tyene dried her tears with the back of her hand and put the vial down. She went back to her chest and began mixing chemicals again. Arianne went to the window and looked out into the night, "Why are all these spears here?"

"Prince Doran," Tyene began, "was afraid the war might spread to Dorne. There is another host in the Boneway. Obara even drew up a whole plan when the raven came from the capital: she would take this army, Nym the other. As Nym marches on the Red Keep, Obara would sack Oldtown."

"What about you?"

"I want to go to Casterly Rock. Finish the last two Lannisters: Jaime, Tommen, the Imp."

"That's three."

"A man. A half. A boy. I count two. With them all dead, Myrcella is the lady of Casterly Rock."

"And Sarella?"

"You know her, she plays her own games." Tyene handed Arianne a cup with a liquid still spinning to mix, "Here."

She looked down at the bitter-smelling liquid with bits of crushed sage leaf floating on the top, "What is it?"

"If you're going to carry the wolf's pup to term, you best make sure it's healthy."

Arianne didn't like the feeling of this scenario, but Tyene wouldn't poison her. Of that much she was certain. She drank the bitter liquid that smelled of spices and peppers. There was an underlying earthy taste of Pentoshi artichokes. She handed the cup back to her cousin who said, "I'll make one for you every day until you give birth. Your pup will be stronger than Obara when she's born."

"That's assuming your medicine is as good as your poisons."

"Will your child be a pup or a sunrise when it's born?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Where is the Lord of Winterfell, currently?"

"Across the Narrow Sea on King's business."

"I see. And when he returns, will he acknowledge your child?"

"Robb is his father's son."

"And Ned Stark's bastard is quite famous. Did you know he's the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Do you think Robb will march the Northlords down the Kingsroad, or make an amphibious landing at Sunspear?"

"I am not birthing Robb's child so he can uphold my claim to Dorne. I did not seduce him." It was only half true. After their first meeting, Arianne didn't need to seduce him. She fell in love, "Maybe there are more important things in life than this game of thrones."

"Like what?"

"Like… love?" it sounded stupid, even to her.

"Love," Tyene said, "I loved my father. My father loved his sister. What is love worth when there are others who will stop at nothing to take the objects of our love away?"

"I know you're angry."

"Seven hells I am."

"But Dorne cannot conquer the Seven Kingdoms any more than the other way around."

"So you're comfortable with your father stealing your inheritance and letting our House decay as he lets the Andals rip our throats out?" It was funny to hear Tyene spit _Andal _from beneath her gold hair and blue eyes. The Martell blood was equal parts Andal and Rhoynar though they liked to pretend otherwise.

"After we lay Prince Oberyn to rest in Sunspear, I will speak to my father. But I do not support open war."

"We tried it your way, Arianne. Now you must try it ours." Tyene's gaze was hard to break from.

"After we lay Prince Oberyn's bones in Sunspear."

There was no further discussion on Dornish inheritance or war. Arianne and Tyene undressed to their smallclothes and crawled into bed. It was cold at first, but Tyene eventually wrapped her arms around the Princess' body and kissed her neck. One hand rested over her womb. The other crept lower, "If you're going to be with this Northman, you have to at least share him with me."

Arianne's first emotion to that was far from jealousy. She felt her blood rush at the image of Robb with Tyene. The Young Wolf never knew what he was getting into when he crawled into Arianne's bed, "You know I've never been able to refuse you anything."


	13. Jaime I

**Jaime**

The Golden Tooth was very commonly called the "Gate to the West." It was the only access to the Rock north of the God's Eye. The route around the Banefort was treacherous enough through it before the Lords of the West were assembled en route and destroyed the starved and beaten army swinging round the Crag. The Goldroad connected Casterly Rock and King's Landing and was guarded by the High Lords of Silverhill and Castamere (prior to the Proud Lord's fall). And farther south was the Ocean Road, connecting Casterly Rock with Highgarden and guarded by the High Lord of Crakehall.

With Crakehall and Silverhill secure, the Golden Tooth was the only blindspot left. Dangling from a noose in the castle's courtyard was Jon Lefford, their blindspot in the Golden Tooth.

After it was done, Jaime assigned a number of his trusted agents to guard the Tooth. He was tempted to give the castle to his cousin Daven. If there was anyone Jaime could trust the defense of the West to, it'd be Daven. Ser Daven Lannister wore a long blond beard after vowing to not cut his beard until his father was avenged. Stafford Lannister was killed almost a year prior at Oxcross by the Young Wolf's ambush.

The War ended, the Young Wolf lived, and Ser Daven continued to have the ferocity and visual similitude to a lion. But Tyrion was the rightful lord of Casterly Rock, only he had that power.

"Take him down," Jaime ordered. Lord Jon had no wife or children. As the younger Lefford brother, he was also the mischievous black sheep. He was well known at Renly's masquerades, and had a dozen scandalous rumors flying about his waist, rumors which might be contributing to the Golden Tooth's succession problem at the moment.

Servants and attendants cut Lord Jon from the rope and the Silent Sisters descended to prepare it for vigil and burial. Ser Jaime and his entourage reentered the castle. Two wars in as many years, the handless knight, once eager to go to war, to swing a sword, and prove his House and the Lannister name, now wanted only to return to the Rock and share meat and mead with his brother.

As they entered the Great Hall, Ser Daven asked his cousin, "So what's next?"

A raven's message from King's Landing was burrowing a hole in Jaime's pocket. Return to King's Landing to serve the Iron Throne. To serve King Petyr, the First of His Name, "I'm not sure. Word has it my brother has returned to Casterly Rock and has taken his seat as Lord Paramount. If I know Tyrion, he has something up his unfortunately short sleeves."

"But _is _there anything to do?" Daven said, pouring two goblets of mead.

Jaime had to confess that there probably wasn't much, "We can continue to solidify our position, I suppose. Lord Tywin left us in a shit hole the way he treated his vassals. They weren't scared of Lannisters. They were scared of _him_."

"But you're not trying to make the Lords of the West fear you." Ser Daven poined out, "So what _are _you doing?"

Jaime took a drink and responded, "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

Aside from the two Lannister knights, the hall was basically empty except for a few servants of the Lefford family, carefully trying not to offend Ser Jaime. Though the actions at Silverhill were quite encouraging, few Westerlanders forgot the lyrics to the _Rains of Castamere_.

As servants were bringing out deer leek soup, the doors to the hall opened and a group of men entered wearing armor and six seashells on a sandy field. Their First Men motto came to Jaime's mind as Lord Gawen approached him. Jaime stood out of respect, not altogether certain why he respected Lord Gawen.

"Lord Jaime, our previous meeting seems a world ago, does it not?" Lord Gawen bowed as he approached.

Jaime returned the gesture, "Indeed, some might say it _was _a world ago."

"May we speak, privately?" Lord Gawen stepped toward a wing of the castle. Jaime complied, stepping toward Lord Westerling's suggestion and following him out to the tower overlooking the Riverroad.

"I supposed you've heard of the events in King's Landing?"

The letter in Jaime's pocket burned, "I have. I suppose you weren't particularly expected a Braavosi's grandson to sit the Iron Throne. Out of curiosity, who were you casting your vote for?"

Lord Westerling tried to hide his embarrassment, "Initially Lord Renly. Later we tried casting our vote for Robb Stark. At the end we casted our vote for Baelish to not seem…"

"Rebellious?"

"Indeed."

"So what do you expect to appear like in front of me, if not rebellious?"

"Right now? A friend?"

The gray clouds overhead started to release a bit of rain. Not quite the rain Lord Tywin would approve of, but a rain nonetheless, "And how would I see you as a friend when you tried to crown one of Casterly Rock's worst enemies?"

"Because now we all have the same enemy."

"Why would you try to cozy up with my House and not Baelish's? Casterly Rock can barely provide it's own security."

"If you believe that…"

"I do," Jaime half-lied.

"Then maybe it was a mistake coming here," Lord Westerling said, "but I trust you know our motto."

"The one about honor? You would've made good friends with Robb Stark. If only he didn't have to marry the Frey woman."

"Well, then you know why I'm here."

"Honor?"

"Indeed."

"Well, how many soldiers can the Crag raise for Casterly Rock?"

Lord Westerling sighed, "Fifty. Twelve of them knights."

"Barely enough for a raid on enemy supplies, never mind enough to form an army." Jaime all of a sudden had the upper hand in this conversation, "Why would I even care who's side you were on?"

"The Crag is still the guardian of the route around the Banefort. De jure lieges of Tarbeck Hall. When your father eliminated the Reynes and Tarbecks, he took their halls for his personal possessions. One might say that Lord Tywin became as rich as he did not by the gold from Casterly Rock, but from Tarbeck Hall and Castamere."

"Yes, one _might _say that." Jaime answered, "One might also say that the gold from those halls will be key to securing Lannister power in the West."

"One might," Lord Gawen laughed, "but not anyone who was at the Kingsmoot."

"Then what would _you _say?"

"The key to Lannister power in the West is _friends_. Lord Tywin wasn't exactly great at that. But I think you and your brother might find it easier, especially if you're setting out to rectify Lord Tywin's tyranny."

"And that starts with rewarding you with Tarbeck Hall?"

"Consider the benefits: you'll have a strong bannerman guarding the northern half of the Realm that doesn't have to rely on geography, we could actually engage in offensive maneuvers into the Riverlands." Jaime all of a sudden had to admit that Lord Gawen was making good points, "And you'll still have all the gold of Castamere and the Rock."

"As I'm sure you understand," Jaime said, "I can't make any of these decisions. _I _am not the Lord of the West."

"Then journey with me to the Crag. You'll see how necessary the funds of Tarbeck Hall are to the maintenance of our seat."

"You should know that owning one of the biggest mines in the realm will require one of the greater taxes as well."

"Perhaps. Consider, Lord Jaime, if my First Men ancestors decided to settle the Rock before your Andals did. Then the Westerlings would rule the West and the Lannisters would be out of gold."

"Don't kid yourself, Lord Gawen. Lann the Clever would winkle you out of the Rock all the same."


	14. Asha I

**Asha**

A storm brewed to the east. It seemed the storms were always brewing to the east despite the fact that her storm was more south than east, but brewing it was. The Ironborn would descend on Pyke and one of them would kill Euron Crow's Eye.

He was sitting in her chair.

"Captain," Lorren said, "Lord Gylbert is refusing us entrance, what would you have us do?"

Asha looked out at the island. It was a stony cliff face jetting out in the middle of the Sunset Sea like a knife from the Drowned God attempting to stab at the Storm God's lair and getting stuck instead on the waves. Jutting out from the east side of the rock was a castle. The Farwynds carved out the rock and built their seat from the island's innard stones. On the western end of the isle, facing the open ocean, was the village of hardened Ironborn, living off their meager crop and pulling salt and fish from the sea.

"Ready a longboat. We're going." Asha commanded.

"You certain that's a good idea?" Tristifer asked, a hand resting hesitantly on his sword.

"You want to sail way the hell out here when my uncle is dead?"

That drew something in between a smile and disgust from her Botley first mate, "Just saying. If Lord Farwynd refuses us, should we waste our forces? Wouldn't you want to save them for the Crow's Eye?"

"That's why it's just _us _going." Asha encouraged, "Don't worry, Tris. You said the same thing at Blackmont, remember?"

"Yes, and if I remember correctly, Victarion almost killed you, too."

"Let's not forget that it was one of the key decisions of this war. That meeting got us Victarion's support. This one will get the Farwynd's."

She wouldn't listen to another word from Tris and jumped into the longboat with Qarl and two rowers. The sea this far out was always a bit rough, the waves rising higher than the deck of your average ship. As they rowed closer to the Lonely Light, the ants on shore began to grow arms and Lonely Lighters began to scramble on shore to prepare for the Ironborn visitors.

"You're positive this was a good idea?" Qarl whispered into her ear over the crash of the waves. It seemed like he was always whispering in her ear nowadays. So far, she was lucky enough to keep him separate from Tris, but now they were all in a rowboat together and the _Black Wind _wasn't all that big.

When their boat scraped against the beach, Asha jumped out onto the sand and marched forward. Before she got fifty feet a dozen men in armor and carrying axes descended on her party. The captain of their guard stepped forward, "Lady Greyjoy, I speak for Lord Farwynd when I suggest you leave Lonely Light unmolested."

Asha let a hand rest on her axe, "I have no intention of molesting the isle. I've merely come to speak to your lord. I _am _his liege."

"That remains a topic of contention, I believe," the man answered. The guards around him prepared for the confrontation.

Asha tried to calm them, "I've not come for blood. Merely to speak to Lord Farwynd. There's only five of us to twelve of you. You can see that I might've brought more, but saw no need. I don't need an army to simply speak with your lord."

Not wanting to press the issue any farther, the captain commanded the men to lower their weapons. They did and he escorted Asha's men to the castle. Inside were banners with the Farwynd sigil: a silhouetted ship against a great red setting sun. For generations, the Farwynds claimed to have sailed to the other side of the Sunset Sea, reaching a land rich in spices and precious metals. If the claim was ever verified, House Farwynd could become richer than even the Lannisters. Until then, they were just the family at the edge of the world.

The captain asked Asha's men to remain in the great hall where he would retrieve them meat and mead while Asha met with Lord Gylbert. The tower to the solar was a cold climb, assisted by arrow slits that looked out on the sea. Asha glanced out one and saw the _Black Wind _rising with the waves. To be honest, she had no desire to be out here treating with Lord Gylbert and would rather be on the deck sailing to her destiny on Pyke.

The captain of the Lonely Light guard opened the door and directed her inside, "Lord Gylbert, Asha Greyjoy, the Captain of the _Black Wind_."

"And Balon Greyjoy's heir." She stepped forward for emphasis. It certainly wasn't a title she was proud of, it was merely the truth.

Lord Gylbert, his hair and beard, once black like the sky over Pyke, were now more salt than pepper. His shoulders were hunched in a way that reminded her too much of her own father. He wore black accompanied with a look of far-sighted death in his eyes.

"Lord Gylbert," Asha called out, "have you nothing to say?"

Apparently he did not.

Asha sighed, "You have refused me entrance…"

"And you have come regardless. I have said everything, now just tell me what you want." Lord Gylbert croaked out his words and turned toward Asha. That's when she saw what he was cradling in his hands: a human skull.

"Lord Farwynd," it was hard to sound brave while staring into the haunted look in his eyes, "I've come as your liege. To call you to our war."

"_War_?" Lord Gylbert stood up so violently from his chair that it knocked over, bringing a small table down with it, leading to a small avalanche of skulls. Asha counted three of them on the floor, rolling around the solar and staring at her with empty sockets, "Was it _war _you said?"

"It was."

"Tell me, how many wars must I fight for Pyke before you leave House Farwynd alone?" he stepped toward her, Asha stepped back once before standing her ground.

"My uncle Euron has stolen my inheritance. You are my bannerman. It is your _duty_."

"Don't you _dare _talk to me of my duty! Don't you dare! How many children's _bones _have they brought you? How many brothers died in your arms? What do you know of it _woman_?"

"Watch yourself, _my lord._" Asha's hand reached for her axe, even gripping the handle.

Lord Gylbert noticed, "Oh? Would you kill me? Is that why you've come? To demand my devotion yet again, or my death as a substitute?"

"When you swore allegiance to the Seastone Chair…"

"I don't _care!" _he screamed, "_Twice _I have answered your father's ravens. I sent the boys of this island off east to die. I held my brother after the siege of Pyke. All his sons dead, I might have died too. Then what Farwynd would you have to call on? And when Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell, I never head back. My son lies in a _ditch _in the North. Ygon and Yohn killed by the Crannogmen. My house _dies with me_."

Asha let go of her axe, despite the fact that killing Lord Gylbert might put him out of his misery."Would that my sons could buy peace with their deaths. But instead you have come, and would take a fourth son if I had one. You'd take him away to die."

"If I could have stopped your sons from perishing…"

"You would have saved my house?"

"I would not have demanded you send all three of your sons."

"Oh? Well that's good to know." He bent down and picked up one of the skulls, "Did you hear that Ygon? With Lady Greyjoy wearing the Driftwood Crown, she wouldn't have demanded your death! So there's that." Lord Gylbert dropped his son's skull and let it clatter against the floor. He walked away from Asha to the window to watch the sea.

She tried to appeal to his sense of reason, "I don't ask for your blood, Lord Gylbert. Only ships. Regardless of how many ships are destroyed, I will return as many as I can take. You suffer no risk."

He laughed. Asha did not expect that, "You Greyjoys," he leaned over the table and his hand fell upon something sharp, "You come here, time and again. Come, let us raid the east. Let us raid the green lands. Let us conquer Casterly Rock, no Winterfell, no King's Landing." He turned to Asha with the knight tightly in his grasp, "You Greyjoys, you come. You hold out your promises of gold, and glory, and _duty _and you just _destroy everything!" _he raised the knife, fury blazing in his eyes and clenching his teeth like bared swords, and slammed the blade into the table, sinking it up to the hilt and pinning a map to the wood. Asha noticed it cut right through Ironman' Bay.

As difficult as it was, Asha tried to focus on her issue at hand, "Will you not provide any ships?"

There was a long silence penetrating the tragedy of the room. Lord Gylbert stared out the window for a long while, his hand still holding firmly to the knife, "Kill me. Then take what you want. I believe that is the Greyjoy way, is it not?"

He sat back in a different chair and stared at the floor, his hand slipping away from the hilt. For the first time since her mother, Asha felt like she was seeing another human being, not an Ironborn. The captain led her below to the great hall where her men awaited the news. Asha conversed with the castellan about Lord Farwynd's ships. Lonely Light had fifteen. Asha told him to get them ready for tomorrow, they would set sail and join the remainder of her fleet off Saltcliffe.

It was the plan she worked out with Victarion: the Iron Fleet would approach Pyke from the east and engage Euron, Asha's ships would come from the west, braving open ocean and flank the Crow's Eye. By then the Greenlanders would be in Harlaw and they'd have to kneel. But it all started with Euron.


End file.
